I Can Learn
by dellaterra
Summary: What happens when a gorgeous man brings his daughter to see a hot young Santa at the mall? Will it be a Merry Christmas for all, and for all a good night? AH, rated M for M/M slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: SM owns the characters; The White Stripes own "I Can Learn." (Rated M for M/M slash)

A/N: This story was inspired by Reni Simon's Christmas wish over on LJ's "Make the Yuletwi'd Gay." She asked for a DILF and a mall Santa in a J/E story that is "fun, fluffy, and some lemon with a Santa hat!" That's how it started, but then it veered off into a bit of angst. Where will it end?

* * *

"Mommy, mommy!" the little darling screams, stretching his arms out to his doting mother while she bobs around, taking the umpteenth photo of Mommy's Little Angel. For fuck's sake, I'm the one who should be screaming. I didn't pee on him; he just peed on me. Don't people toilet train their kids anymore?

Alice Brandon, one of the more amusing elves in Santa's little gingerbread house at the mall, bends down to pick up Junior and takes yet another opportunity to show me her tits.

"Watch it, Alice," I caution. "Junior sprung a leak. You don't want to get it all over your cute little elf costume." It's funny to watch her expression change from batting her eyelashes and attempting to look seductive to _ewww_. She holds Junior out in front of her, under his armpits, like he's a mobile toxic waste dump or something. Which, of course, he is.

I'm gonna kill Peter.

"Go to Heidi in Human Resources," he'd told me. "She'll take care of you." He'd heard that there was an opening for someone to sell high-end electronics for salary plus commission, along with a 20% discount on anything in the department. I was already working part-time in a restaurant and I was looking to earn some extra cash before Christmas. It sounded good to me.

"Flat-screen TVs," he said enticingly. "Digital cameras." He said that the worst thing I'd have to wear would be a red vest, or maybe one of those red Santa hats with a little white pom-pom on the end.

Well, that last part turns out to be true, although it isn't exactly the worst thing I have to wear. That dubious honor goes to either the itchy white beard or the pee-stained padding under the ugly red suit. How I went from a potential salary plus commission plus discount in electronics to an hourly wage as one of the Santas at the mall is still a mystery to me. But I needed another job, even if it was only for a month, and I'm still clinging to the faint hope that getting my foot in the door as Santa might lead to bigger and better things.

I personally haven't believed in Santa Claus for 20 years, ever since I was six years old and saw Santa at church, stuffing pillows under a red jacket that was cinched with a big black fake leather belt. Just like the one I'm wearing right now. No more visions of sugarplums for me; my Christmas wishes for a fat paycheck and a new flat screen have already gone up in smoke.

Alice interrupts my brooding as she bounces back up the steps to my gaudy throne with some paper towels and a spray bottle. Before I can stop her, she proceeds to kneel down and spray my lap with Febreeze, then begins doing some serious dabbing, starting at my knees and working her way up toward my junk.

"Whoa there, Little Elf!" I say before she invades my personal space any further. "Listen, sweetie, you're adorable..." She bounces to her feet and looks at me with sparkling eyes. "...And I'm gay."

I watch her sparkling eyes change to disappointed ones. I hate to let her down but Elf Girl needs a serious reality check before she starts hanging mistletoe over my head and looking at china patterns.

"Damn!" she mutters under her breath.

"Sorry, Alice."

"No, that's okay Jasper. It's just so damn frustrating that all the great guys are either married or gay."

"Don't I know it, honey," I commiserate. She looks up at me, then starts laughing. I like Alice. She's a psycho pixie in a green elf dress – if you could call six inches of velvet trimmed with fake white fur over matching green panties a dress – but she sure is cute. "Now go find us some stud muffins for dinner."

"Fat chance," she laughs as she opens the door to bring in the next little darling. "And even if I do, I'm gonna keep them for myself!"

And so it goes from the day after Thanksgiving – Lord spare me from ever again having to work on Black Friday – until four weeks later. Alice turns out to be the best elf a gay Santa could hope for and the shifts we work together are a lot of fun. We discover that we both love classic Chicago blues, as well as local bands like In Tall Buildings. We occasionally hang out together after work, checking out the local music scene.

We are both single. We share lunches in the food court, dishing about all the cute guys that walk by. She invites me over to her place one night to meet her gay neighbor, Mike. Turns out I already know him from a recent Karaoke Night at Spin, and I didn't like him the first time I met him either. However, Alice's lasagna is delicious.

Although I still have some Christmas shopping to do, I do manage to get a gift for Alice. She's a big Louisa May Alcott fan and the one thing she talks about on almost a daily basis is _Little Women: The Musical, w_hich I think is pretty funny: _Little Women _for a little woman. Alice is not amused, but at least she is grateful for the pair of tickets I give her.

December 23 arrives in Chicago, bringing with it temperatures below freezing and the promise of a blizzard by the end of the day. Instead of keeping people snug in their homes, sitting by a cozy fire with a cup of hot cocoa in one hand and Christmas cookies in the other, the weather forecast seems to push the panic button for every shopper who has been procrastinating all month. Now, the day before Christmas Eve, the parking lot at the mall is packed and the stores are filled with shoppers.

I get off the bus and walk through the slush toward the mall entrance, preoccupied with my plans for the day. Today is my last shift as Santa and after I finish, I'll head over to the restaurant for their open mic night. It'll be a nice change from making salads.

I sigh as I change into my Santa costume for the last time in the employee locker room. The costume, which was not all that new when I started working here, is now the worse for wear after three more "accidents" in as many weeks. In spite of several trips to the dry cleaners since Alice first sanitized me with Febreeze, the pants still have a cloying odor. More than one child has climbed into my lap, turned up his or her precious widdle nose at the unappetizing aroma, and rapidly climbed back down in disgust without uttering a single word about wish lists.

After changing into my deplorable costume, I have to run the gauntlet down the concourse from the big-box store that employs me to the faux gingerbread house that has become my second home. I have come to the conclusion that this is my daily penance for every wicked thing I've ever done. Along the way, children tug at my baggy red pants or grab the big ugly belt as if determined to take me home with them. Or they position themselves directly in my path as if I'm gonna drop everything and listen to their Christmas wishes right in the middle of the concourse.

I don't think so.

The mothers aren't much better. "Oh, Santa! Santa!" they call, scurrying toward me with Junior or Princess in tow as if it's 1996 and I'm holding the very last Tickle Me Elmo. As if stopping me on my way to the gingerbread house is gonna get them a better place in line, in the nonexistent VIP lane instead of the one- to two-hour line that usually awaits them.

Hey, if I have to run the gauntlet every day, then they have to wait in line. I wish that the mall had a secret passageway or something. An underground tunnel with a ladder into my throne room would make all the to-ing and fro-ing a lot less painful.

I try to be nice; I swear I do. I'm not really a heartless asshole hiding inside a Santa suit. I can tell that these tired ladies want nothing more than to check the visit to Santa off their lengthy Christmas to-do lists before heading home to a nice cup of eggnog spiked with brandy and a snog with their own personal Santa after tucking the little darling into bed.

After I leave the locker room, I give Peter a three-fingered salute – a Santa-sanitized version of the finger – as I walk through the menswear department where he's busy hustling three-piece suits. He laughs. Again. He'd already had a good long laugh when I told him how his great job lead turned out. He had seriously believed he was steering me to commission/discount heaven when we hooked up at Spin the week before Thanksgiving.

We met for the first time in a class at the University of Chicago but didn't really get acquainted until a couple of years later when we ran into each other at the club's Halloween party. Peter was dressed as Jack Sparrow; I came as Elizabeth Swann. Then I came in the club's rest room, when he went exploring under my skirts. I came several more times when I went home with him. He took great delight in undressing me and I took great delight in letting him. Unlike me, he swings both ways and this seemed to be the best of both worlds for him that night.

Since then, whenever I go to the club, I know that we will probably leave together if neither one of us hooks up with anyone else. Sex with Peter is always great. He's big and uncut and he works out regularly. Lord have mercy, that man is a living, breathing ad for abs of steel, not to mention buns.

And if Peter's not around, there always seems to be someone else who is attractive enough, attracted to me, and wants to get it on. Top, bottom – I enjoy just about anything. What's not to like? Most of the guys I meet are healthy and take good care of themselves. They know what they want and I like to give it to them.

Not very meaningful, I know, but it works for me.

As I continue making my way toward the gingerbread house, I realize that thinking about Peter and sporting a boner in a Santa suit is not going to go over too well with the soccer moms following in my wake so I quickly bring my attention back to my surroundings. Seeing the long line of antsy children and tired parents makes any notion of a boner disappear immediately.

If I have gained anything from this experience, it is the certainty that I am definitely _not_ parent material.

It's not just their sticky hands and whiny voices; it's the whole idea of being responsible for a little person 24/7. I saw what that did to my mom. Don't get me wrong – she has always been there for me when it counted – but most of the time when I was growing up she had to work two or three jobs just to make ends meet. I know she hopes I'll meet a nice boy someday and eventually make her a grandmother but I just don't see that happening, at least not anytime soon.

The kids in line start getting even more restless when they catch sight of me as I walk up the ramp to the gingerbread house. I wave and toss out a few halfhearted "Ho-ho-hos" as Alice opens the door and my final day begins.

It is a very long day. It feels like every kid in Chicago comes through here today. Thankfully, none of them poop or pee on me. Jane, who is Elf Girl #2 today, isn't so lucky – one kid vomits on her shoes. The only upside of that is an emergency visit to the shoe department for a free pair of shoes. Her new Uggs don't exactly go with her costume but I can't blame her for making the most of the opportunity.

The general manager of the big-box store comes into the gingerbread house at 4 p.m. to congratulate us. Apparently, we have broken all records for the number of children visiting Santa in a single day. He makes a little speech, smiles for the company newsletter photographer, and gives each of us a coupon for 10% off in the housewares department before escaping back to his office.

We listen to his speech, hoping that he's going to send us home early. A Christmas Eve Eve present, if you will. No such luck. I roll my eyes and immediately give my coupon to Alice.

"You can file this under 'Bah, humbug,'" I tell her, looking at my watch. "Only one hundred minutes left in my career as Santa."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," she says. "You know you're gonna miss me when it's over, right?"

"Right," I agree. "But you and Garrett are still coming tonight, aren't you?"

At that moment, Jane opens the door to the gingerbread house and ushers in yet another little darling, a little girl with a very serious expression on her face. She is holding the hand of a tall man who has to stoop a little as he comes through the door, just like I do. When he looks up, I am face to face with one of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen. Athletic-looking, but not steroidal, with coppery hair in casual disarray, beautiful green eyes, and that chin... and those lips...

As I watch him look around with a similarly serious expression, I gasp softly but it's loud enough to catch Alice's attention and then she gasps a little too. It's very rare to see dads in the gingerbread house, and even rarer to see such a tall, dark, and handsome dad. He looks familiar somehow but I can't place him.

I can feel my heart racing and my mouth suddenly goes dry. I'm smitten. From the way her jaw drops, Alice is smitten too. I reach up with my index finger and touch her under her chin, pushing up gently. She snaps out of it pretty quickly, shuts her mouth, and blushes beet red before stepping down from the dais to lead the little girl forward.

I am curious to know why these two look so serious. Most kids come in either sobbing with fear because they are terrified of the big red and white lump (me) sitting on the fake throne, or wildly hyperactive, hardly able to sit still on my lap long enough for their moms to take those endless mandatory photos. The big-box store used to employ a professional photographer but once people started buying digital cameras, the demand for the formal portrait with Santa tanked and the photographer went the way of the dodo bird into extinction.

This guy also has a camera, a pretty expensive one. Everything about him looks expensive: his suit, his watch, the cashmere coat folded carefully over one arm. His shoes looked handmade. Even his scruff looks expensive. He has a three-day-old beard that looks like it has been carefully shaped and trimmed.

The little girl is dressed to the nines, if you can even say that about a kid. She looks more like she's going to an audience with the Queen of England than to visit a fake Santa at the mall. As she walks toward me, I can see a starched pink taffeta dress where her bright red coat opens, with white tights covering her legs and shiny black patent leather shoes buckled onto her feet.

Geez, I sound like a stylist for the Little Miss America pageant, don't I? It's just that she looks far too perfect compared to a typical Chicagoland kid. I know how slushy and disgusting the parking lot is and yet her shoes are pristine. So how do they do it? Limo, maybe, I speculate. Door-to-door service. Red carpet. Magic carpet... Magic fingers... Looking at the long, slender fingers on that guy, I wish I was the one holding his hand.

Now it's Alice's turn to clear her throat and bring me back to reality as the little girl lets go of the man's hand and reaches for Alice's outstretched one. But not before looking back questioningly at her father.

"It's okay, Isa. Go on now," he says with a nod of his gorgeous head and the sexiest British accent I've ever heard.

Alice and I look at each other again, with raised eyebrows this time instead of dropped jaws.

"Dibs," I whisper.

"In your dreams," she chortles.

We'll just see about that.

Fortunately, we both return from fantasy land fairly quickly and go back to doing our actual jobs.

"Hi, sweetie," Alice says in a mellifluous voice, just a little more loudly than necessary. "What's your name?" I roll my eyes as I watch her bend down to speak to the child, flashing those perky tits at Daddy over there in the process.

"Isabella."

"My, that's a beautiful grown-up name for a little girl!" Alice exclaims. "How old are you, Isabella?"

"I'm six years old," the child replies, with the same delicious accent as her father.

"Well, Isabella, are you ready to say hello to Santa?"

"Yes, miss."

"Oh, what lovely manners!" Alice gushes, turning toward dear old Dad. "She's adorable," she says, batting her eyelashes and flashing that winning Alice smile.

"Thank you," he replies brusquely, with just a tiny twitch of his lips. It's not quite a smile and I feel a small flutter of relief. How girly is that? Clearly Alice – sexy, feminine dynamo that she is – is not closing the deal.

Now it's my turn to smile. I don't want to brag or anything but I am fairly good at flirtation and seduction. However, the odds are all stacked against me here. Just exactly how am I going to show this beautiful man that I – the smelly Sad-Sack Santa of Lincolnwood Town Center – am more attracted to him than any man I've met in ages – maybe ever?

And what's that all about anyway? Sure, the guy is amazing looking but it's more than just looks. I can't explain it, and right now I'm not even in a position to try. I sigh in defeat.

Alice now stands before me with Mini-Me, the tiny female version of the heartthrob who waits a few feet behind her. She has the same green eyes, the same wavy hair, the same chin (without the scruff, of course). She even has the same sad, anxious expression on her face as he does.

I reach down with both arms to lift her up. She settles onto my lap, smooths out her coat and then sits ramrod straight, examining my face for... who knows what? Authenticity? A sign? A miracle?

I realize that I might be doing the same thing. She sits very still, the most prepossessing child I have ever met. I briefly wonder what it would be like to be her father but then I almost laugh out loud. If I ever had a kid, she would be nothing like this prim and proper well-behaved little girl.

It's time to launch into my spiel.

"Well, hello there, Isabella!" I say in my heartiest Santa voice.

"Hello, Santa," she replies quietly.

"And what would you like for Christmas?" It's the standard, foolproof department-store Santa script that has launched a thousand greedy lists during the past month. It has never failed me.

Until now.

The little girl's eyes widen and she looks around frantically at her father. He frowns and cocks his head to one side. I look at Alice and we both shrug a little.

The girl cups her hand around her mouth and I lean down to hear what she has to say.

"Didn't you get my e-mail, Santa?" she whispers in a tremulous voice.

I straighten up and look at her for a moment, trying not to laugh. Hearing Alice giggling behind me doesn't help. No kid ever asked this Santa if he checks his e-mail. What the hell am I supposed to say?

"I'm sorry, honey," I begin. "Santa is a little behind on e-mails at this time of the year. Couldn't you just tell me now?"

Even as I say the words, I realize they are a mistake. Her lower lip trembles and her eyes fill with tears. That's it, I think, Santa Jasper has made this beautiful child cry. I'll be lucky if Dad doesn't punch my lights out.

But she's made of sterner stuff and rallies quickly with a deep sigh. She beckons for my ear again.

"Can you bring my papa back?" she whispers.

"Your grandpa?" I ask. Aw, poor kid, her grandfather must have died recently.

"No, my Papa Seth," she corrects me in a soft voice.

I'm confused. "But isn't he your papa?" I ask, gesturing toward the man who had brought her in.

"No, silly Santa," she says with the beginning of a smile. "That's my daddy. Seth is my other daddy but I call him Papa. That was my mama's idea."

"Where's your mama?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Oh, she lives in Washington, with Uncle Jacob."

"D.C.?"

"No, in Forks, Washington," she says, then looks worried again. "But Santa," she asks, "how are you going to find Carlie and Leah if you don't even know where they live?"

"Who's Carlie and Leah?"

She sighs impatiently. "My _sisters_."

"Why don't you live with them?" I can't resist asking.

I hear Alice's sharp intake of breath. Maybe I'm going too far but I don't care. My gaydar went on full alert the moment little Isabella mentioned two daddies and now I want to understand the whole picture here.

"Because I live with my daddy and my papa, silly," she says, but then she remembers again and her lower lip trembles.

"I'm sorry about your papa," I say quickly. "Where did he go?" Rebound, I'm thinking. I can do rebound.

"Mama says he went to heaven but I don't believe her. How can you get to heaven when they put you in the ground?" A single tear rolls down her cheek.

"What does your... daddy say?" I ask, trying to keep the growing cast of characters straight in my mind.

"He says maybe Papa Seth went to heaven but he still lives in our hearts... Can you bring him back, Santa? I miss him so much and my daddy is so sad."

I look up and find those beautiful green eyes looking sadly at his daughter. Clearly he has caught the gist of her request.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I say to him soberly. Suddenly, his gaze shifts and he's looking directly at me. Or rather he's looking at Santa. I wish this man was a mind reader so he could know exactly how much I'd like to ease his pain. And how very, very naughty _and_ nice I could be in the process.

'Thanks," he says abruptly, and turns away for a moment, head bowed.

"Is there anything else Santa can bring you, honey?" I ask sympathetically. I have a feeling that I already know the answer.

"No, thank you, Santa," she says dejectedly and starts to climb down from my lap.

I stop her. "Hey, Dad, do you want to get a photo here?"

He looks at the camera in his hand as if he's never seen it before. "Oh...," he replies. "Wait a minute, Isa."

She waits obediently as he sets up the camera and starts taking photos. I smile at him wistfully as he snaps half a dozen shots, wishing I could rip off this stupid beard and the whole ugly costume and just follow him out through the gingerbread house door.

Instead, I now sit with a frozen smile on my face as the beautiful little girl thanks me politely for the candy cane I just gave her. I watch as she jumps off my lap, follows Alice back down the steps, takes her father's hand, and walks with him out of my life forever.

Almost immediately Jane appears with another child, a red-faced toddler struggling to get out of his mother's arms, and I release a breath I don't even know I've been holding. I feel Alice's hand on my shoulder.

"Nice work, Santa," she says sympathetically.

I reach up and pat her hand in return. "You too, Elf Girl. One of your best efforts." She grins as we both struggle to find our way past the heartbreak we have just witnessed.

The last 90 minutes stretch on interminably as the crowds of shoppers dwindle and fewer children come in to make their last-minute appeals for the latest Xbox or Barbie, Harry Potter Legos, etc., etc. As the mall clock strikes six, Alice and I race each other back to the employees' locker room, more than ready to ditch these awful costumes and be on our merry way, although I must admit that Alice looks mighty cute in hers, and I tell her so. She thanks me and grins as she shuts her locker and jams the costume into her bag.

"Alice!" I exclaim in a stage whisper. "Are you stealing that elf costume?"

She gives me a conspiratorial nod and whispers back, "Garrett has a thing for elves," she giggles. Garrett is her latest boyfriend.

"TMI, Alice," I say, rolling my eyes. "TMI!" Before I close my own locker, however, I do reach in and pluck out the Santa hat, a silly souvenir of this god-awful job.

Alice and Garrett are planning to join me later so she and I take a moment to figure out where we'll meet. Then I tuck the hat inside my leather jacket before sauntering through the store and back into the mall.

Usually I'm too tired after a shift to do much more than climb onto a bus for the 30-minute ride and then stumble the two blocks from the bus stop to my apartment before collapsing in front of my TV or computer. But tonight for some reason, I'm still strangely energized from the encounter with that gorgeous guy and his kid and so I decide to do a little shopping before I leave the mall. Not that I can afford much from the shops here, but it never hurts to look, does it?

I pull out the Santa hat and place it firmly on my head, give the raspberries to the big-box store, and head down to the lower level of the mall. I'm walking in the general direction of the gingerbread house when I bump into a man backing out of the Haagen Dazs shop, both hands filled with shopping bags.

"Sorry," I mumble as I bend down to pick up some of the bags I've knocked out of his hands.

"That's quite all right," he replies curtly, after muttering something that I can't make out, and I hear a child's voice behind him. I am instantly jerked out of my reverie by the very man I have been thinking about for the past two hours.

"Oh! It's you!" I say, then feel like an idiot.

"Me?" he responds. "Have we met?" He steps back and looks me over. I'm a tall, lanky guy – taller than he is, I now realize – with steely blue eyes and dishwater blond hair pulled back in a short ponytail, wearing torn jeans, a black leather jacket, motorcycle boots, and a Santa hat.

I love having his eyes on me and I start to ask, "Do you like what you see?" However, before I can say anything, two elderly ladies approach him, stepping in front of me as if I'm not even there.

"You're Edward Cullen, aren't you?" the taller of the two asks, then goes on without waiting for a reply. "We saw you last night with the Chicago Philharmonic. You were heavenly... I mean, your playing was heavenly."

He chuckles politely, a low rumble that resonates in my chest as if I've just been tasered, but in a good way.

I'm in a state of shock.

_This_ is Edward Fucking Cullen? The British piano prodigy who played in Beijing when he was ten years old? And with Elton John when he was 12? More recently he has been winning awards right and left for his unique fusion of classical and modern music. I knew he looked familiar when I first saw him but I had no idea that it was actually _him_. This man is a legend in the music business. I myself dabble a little on guitar, earthbound by my pedestrian talent, while this guy is a god, residing somewhere in the outer stratosphere.

I sigh as the last bit of hope I had disappears. My bubble is officially burst. There is no way I could ever have a man like Edward Cullen.

He is very gracious, giving the ladies his autograph when the shorter one whips out the Philharmonic program and a pen. At the same time, he's very protective of his daughter. She hovers slightly behind him, holding onto his cashmere coat as he deals politely with his fans. When the ladies ask for a photo with him, he positions Isabella so that she is completely behind him, not in the picture at all, as I stand nearby, still gaping.

The ladies finally depart and he turns around to pick her up, speaking quietly to her. Encounters with strangers do not appear to be her favorite pastime. Then I realize that another mystery has been solved: Her shoes are so pristine because he carried her into the mall.

As he turns away, I come to my senses.

"Edward," I call out. He turns back at the use of his first name, one eyebrow arched. "Uh, Mr. Cullen, sir. I just wanted to apologize again for bumping into you a few minutes ago."

"That's quite all right," he says again, a bit dismissively this time, and turns to pick up his bags.

"And, to answer your question, yes, we have met," I say in a rush before he can move out of earshot.

He turns and frowns as he tries to place me. I start to tell him who I am when I realize that I can't really do that without violating the ultimate Santa oath: Never tell a child the truth about Santa. Oh shit, now what am I going to do?

"Ho-ho-ho?" I say softly, pointing to the Santa hat and hoping that he'll make the connection without spilling the beans to his daughter.

The frown remains in place and I despair of ever moving beyond this moment. In the meantime, Isabella, with her arms still wrapped around her father's neck, turns to look at me.

"Oh! Hello, Santa," she says with a shy smile. Her father's eyebrows shoot up in confusion.

"What do you mean, sweetheart?" he asks.

"You are Santa, aren't you?" she asks in turn, as if I am a child myself, too stupid to know who I am. "I told you about my e-mail."

"What e-mail?" her father asks.

"What do you mean?" I say at the same time, repeating her father's previous question. I don't want to be the only one here not asking questions in this bizarre conversation.

"Oh Daddy," she say, rolling her eyes and ignoring both of us. "I know all about Santa. And he," she says, pointing at me, "is the Santa who gave me the candy cane."

"How do you know?" we both ask in unison, not wanting to accept that she no longer believes in Santa.

Then I hear a new sound: They both laugh. Her laughter is like jingle bells, dashing through the snow. And his? His is music to my ears and I want it to keep on playing forever.

"Leah told me last summer, silly Daddy," she says affectionately.

He growls playfully. "I'm going to have to talk to that young lady now, aren't I?" he says, pretending to be angry but I can see a twinkle in his eye. He whips out his phone and finds a number.

I stand there feeling like an idiot, on the periphery of a lovely little family moment. But it's not my family. I'm thinking that perhaps now is a good time to walk away but then I look at Edward and I shiver. Edward Cullen is looking at me intently as he listens to a phone ring. Somewhere in Washington state, if I remember correctly.

He licks his lips and I feel my cock twitch in anticipation. But he's only preparing to leave a message. "Bella," he says. "This is Edward. I'm here in Chicago with Isa and...," he pauses, still looking at me. "What's your name?"

"Me?" I point to myself like an idiot. He nods. "J-Jasper," I stutter, then collect myself. "Jasper Whitlock, at your service, sir." I end with a bit of a smirk and a florid, clumsy attempt at a bow.

He raises an eyebrow at that and continues his message. "Yeah, um, I'm with Isa and Jasper, and I've just learned that someone named Leah has been a little tattletale about Santa. Tell her she's a very naughty girl! Give my love to Jacob. I'll talk to you soon." With that, he ends the call. "So, Jasper Whitlock, what are you doing for dinner?"

I feel like I've died and gone to heaven as I hear his voice say my name, but I am quickly brought back down to earth.

"Oh shit," I say without thinking. Isabella giggles and Edward glares at me. "Sorry!"

"What's the problem?" he asks.

"I have a gig tonight, over at Katerina's." I've been waiting for months for a chance to move from lowly salad prep guy to a one-night stand as a guitarist at one of Kate's famous open-mic sessions and tonight is the night.

"A gig? Are you a musician?"

"Yeah, but not exactly the same way you are," I say ruefully. "I play a little guitar with a couple of guys from work."

"And what is Katerina's? A club?"

"Sort of. There's a bar and a restaurant, with a little stage in the corner for live music."

"Right. Katerina's it is."

"It is what?" I ask. I'm still too dazzled by him to follow his train of thought.

"Dinner, then your show."

"Oh!"

"Shall we go?"

I nod, struck dumb by sheer terror as I imagine Edward Cullen watching The Dust Covers as we plod laboriously through our little set of bluesy ballads.

He bounces Isabella in his arms once to position her more comfortably and then reaches down for the shopping bags he had dropped when I bumped into him.

"Oh, I'm so sorry about that," I hasten to say.

"I'm certainly not," he says, looking me over in a manner that makes me want to preen and prance and strip for him right there in the mall.

"Let me carry those," I offer.

I don't expect the glare that my polite words seem to provoke. "You don't have to do anything for me," he hisses.

"Hey, I was just trying to be polite," I shoot back. "You already have your arms full. I may look like a bum but my mama always taught me to be mannerly."

"My mama teaches me manners too!" Isabella pipes up and the awkward moment ends. I extend my hand to take the bags and he silently passes them to me with a wry smile.

By the time we get to the West Touhy Avenue exit from the mall, Edward's driver is waiting in a shiny new black Escalade. He takes the bags from me and stashes them in the rear of the vehicle. Edward and Isabella sit in the back seat; I sit up front with the driver. I prepare to give him directions to Katerina's but he just punches it into the GPS and we're on our way.

The six-mile trip from the mall to the restaurant usually takes about thirty minutes on the bus. Today we have an extra stop to make that adds a few more miles. Plus there are heavy snow showers and plenty of rush-hour traffic to deal with, so the whole trip ends up taking almost ninety minutes.

"How does Isabella usually cope with restaurants and live music?" I ask as the traffic inches along slowly. I realize that her behavior has been impeccable so far, but I'm a little concerned about how she'll deal with dinner and a raucous evening of music as it gets closer to her bedtime.

"We're taking her back to the guest house," Edward tells me.

"I'm surprised that you have a room at a B & B when there are so many nice hotels in Chicago. Why don't you stay in some luxury hotel on the Magnificant Mile?"

"Jasper," he says, laughing a little, "we reserve the entire place – all five suites – whenever we come to Chicago. There are just too many of us." He starts ticking off the names and occupations of everyone involved. A nanny is mentioned, and a personal assistant, plus security staff. Sometimes a tutor comes along but she's off now until after the New Year. His parents often visit them when he and Isabella come to Chicago. Apparently they left yesterday. Edward and Isabella will join them in London on Christmas Day.

"The answer to your question is very simple," he continues. "Isabella always travels with me. I try to give her as much of a homelike atmosphere as I can. That's impossible in a hotel."

Soon we're dropping her off with the nanny, who had had the day off while Edward went shopping with Isabella. We don't stay long enough for me to tour the whole place but the living room and kitchen are pretty impressive. I can't help wondering if I'll get to see his bedroom later.

A guy can hope, right?

It's almost 8:00 by the time we get to Katerina's. We're due to go on in an hour, and I'm too keyed up to eat very much. I do manage to wolf down most of a bowl of Kate's famous _fasolada_, the Greek bean soup that I love, and it settles my nerves a bit. Edward starts with calamari and finishes with souvlaki.

In the Greek spirit of the place, Edward orders a full bottle of ouzo, which has never been a particular favorite of mine. I'm especially fond of Samuel Adams' chocolate Bock beer this year, but I can't say no to him when he insists that I join him in toasts to Christmas and Katerina's and Santa Claus and Chicago. After the fourth one, I'm beginning to see double and, although I feel much more relaxed, I now start worrying about whether my fingers will even be able to find the guitar strings, let alone play the right ones.

I suppose if I had been sober, I wouldn't have asked the next question.

"What were you doing last year at this time?"

His panicky expression tells me that I've crossed a line somehow and I suspect that it probably has to do with that guy Seth. Nonetheless, he does try to answer.

"Last year we were right here in Chicago, doing the Christmas concert with the Philharmonic for the first time," he says. "Seth had just negotiated a new recording contract and..." He stops; his eyes are watery.

Recording contracts. Personal assistants and security guards. The chasm between his existence and mine yawns wide open, in case I haven't already understood how truly out of reach he is from the fancy clothes, the driver, and the multitude of shopping bags. Fortunately, between the effects of the ouzo and the imminent start of our set, I don't have time to dwell on all that just now. Instead, I decide to take another leap... of faith? Into the abyss? I'd know soon enough.

"Here's to Seth," I say, holding up my glass. Edward kind of chokes up for a moment and I automatically reach out to take his hand. Even in my alcoholic haze, I immediately realize how inappropriate that is and start to put my hand back in my lap, but he reaches for it anyway under the table and holds on tightly.

"To Seth," he says, his eyes bright with unshed tears, "and to a new friend." He hoists his glass, clinks it against mine, and then drinks it all down.

Katerina had seen us come in and, much to my relief, picks that moment to join us. I don't even have to introduce Edward; she recognizes him immediately, which makes me feel like an even bigger shit than I do already for not recognizing him in the first place. She cajoles a little, trying to get him to play a set or two but he declines. She's clearly disappointed, but very gracious about it nonetheless.

James and Riley are already warming up and I excuse myself to join them. As I begin to slide off the banquette, reluctantly pulling away from Edward's warm hand, he stops me, still holding on for a moment.

"What are you playing tonight?" he asks. With my free hand I pull the play list from my pocket and read aloud the four titles we've been practicing in Riley's garage – three for the set, plus one encore if Kate says it's okay.

"Jasper..." he says, almost shyly, then stops.

I am intensely conscious of Edward's hand in mine. It feels so natural there, like these two hands belong together. Or something... I'm getting distracted again.

"Yeah?" I say, finally looking up at him.

"...would you mind if I sat in?"

He says it so softly, so tentatively, that I'm not sure I heard him correctly. International celebrity Edward Cullen wants to sit in with the northside homeboy Dust Covers?

However, before I can answer, I'm blindsided by a punch to my shoulder from behind and turn to find Alice bouncing in her patented fighter's stance.

"Jasper! What the hell happened to you?" she asks. "We waited for twenty minutes at the bus stop and you weren't answering your phone so we finally just decided to come and see if you got run over or something and Katerina told us you were over here so what the hell happened to you anyway?" She doesn't wait for a reply but readies another punch.

I hold up my free hand protectively but she's distracted by James and Riley as they call out a greeting. There's a cute guy with her and she drags him over to the tiny stage to introduce him. Garrett, the new boyfriend.

She stops bouncing suddenly, with a little "Oh!" when she finally notices that I'm holding someone's hand. Her eyes widen when she sees whose hand I'm holding.

"Um, Alice Brandon, this is Edward Cullen," I say, taking great pleasure in watching her jaw drop. Again. This time she manages to do it with a certain panache, I notice.

"Alice," Edward says, extending his other hand to shake hers. "The elf-girl!" he exclaims suddenly as he recognizes her.

At that, Garrett perks up and starts to speak. Alice puts a finger to his lips. "Not now, sweetie," she says, blushing as I laugh. Edward looks perplexed.

"Apparently Garrett is an _aficionado_ of elves," I explain.

"Brilliant," Edward says with a lovely crooked smile on his face that I want to see much more of.

"Edward," I say, turning back to answer his question, "we'd be honored – and a little overwhelmed, I think – but you are more than welcome to join us."

I beam at Alice and gesture toward the empty seats at our table as Edward slides over and stands up, still holding my hand. Behind his back I can see Alice on tiptoe, mouthing "Wow!" in my direction.

As he sits down at the piano, I can hear a ripple of excitement flowing outward from our table as some of the other customers recognize Edward. When I introduce him to James and Riley, I see the same shocked expression that probably has been on my face ever since those two old ladies approached him in the mall. When he runs through a few arpeggios to warm up, I notice Kate's head pop up like a prairie dog in a gopher hole from where she is chatting with a couple of regulars. As we talk about a few things we need to change with the addition of the piano, she quickly makes her way to the stage with an excited gleam in her eyes.

Edward seems to guess what she's going to say and speaks before she can get too carried away. "Kate, right now I'm just a guy who met Jasper in the mall this afternoon. With his permission, I'm sitting in on a couple of numbers, if that's okay with you."

She nods mutely.

"If one of the guys does introductions at some point, he's welcome to introduce me too. Or not. It's up to them."

She opens her mouth to protest, to claim the honor of introducing him herself but he puts up a hand and stops her again.

"I hope you don't mind, Kate, but I'm on holiday and I'm just trying to relax a little."

She sighs, then shrugs, perhaps realizing that whether she introduces him or not, this is going to be legendary and will do nothing but add more luster to her restaurant's reputation. She throws in her last gambit. "Can I record this? For Jasper, I mean."

"How?" I ask eagerly. What I wouldn't give for a demo tape with Edward Cullen on piano!

"Use my phone," Edward says, pulling it out of his pocket. He sets it up for digital video recording, then hands it to Alice.

"Ready?" I ask. James and Riley are looking a little green around the gills but they nod and off we go.

Of course, Edward is a fabulous improvisational player. His notes weave in and out of our melody line, alternating between harmonizing beautifully and throwing in a bit of dissonance that transforms our journeyman efforts into something earthy and quixotic.

We finish our third number to wild applause and, when I introduce everyone, including Edward, there is a collective gasp in the house and then enough applause to raise the roof. I look for Kate and see her give an enthusiastic two thumbs up for the encore.

"We're gonna wrap this up with a little something from the White Stripes," I announce. I look at Edward but he shakes his head and sits back on the piano bench as we launch into "I Can Learn." Without an electric guitar, it doesn't have as much punch as the original but we aren't too shabby.

_I don't know any lullabies,  
I don't know how to make you mine  
but I can learn... _

_No harm will come of this  
one little midnight kiss  
It will not burn... _

I guess I'm not too surprised to find myself turning toward Edward like a sunflower toward the sun as I sing and play. James and Riley had argued with me for a long time about the fourth song of our set and I hadn't been in favor of this one. Now I am grateful for their persistence and I just sing from the heart, never looking away from Edward's steady gaze.

We take our bows and then it's over. The spotlights go off as we pack up our gear while Edward sits unmoving, staring at the piano keys. Before Kate can announce the next performer, his disembodied voice emerges from the darkness.

"This is for Seth," he says quietly into the mic as he starts playing a slow dirge of a melody that soon quickens and picks up a few jazzy motifs, light and sparkling and full of joy. Then it winds down, becomes solemn, and the dirge is back, except for the last few notes, which sound something like a question mark.

The room is so silent that you could hear the proverbial pin drop. No one is sure if he's finished until he stands up and walks back to our table. Then there is thunderous applause, rolling in waves from the bar at the back of the restaurant, through all the tables, and growing even louder as people stand up and add cries of "Bravo!" and "More!" to their applause.

He sits down wearily and lifts one hand in acknowledgment before covering his face. As he does, I see a trail of tears down his cheeks. Cameras are starting to flash and it just feels intolerably invasive to me. I stands up with my back to the house and pull Edward up in front of me, then push him toward the rest rooms between the stage and the kitchen.

We go into the men's room and I lock the door and lean against one of the sinks. Edward closes a toilet seat, sits down, and reaches for paper to blow his nose.

"I'm sorry about this," he says with an apologetic gesture toward his face. The tears haven't stopped.

"Edward, you have nothing to be sorry for. You – "

His head jerks up and he has a furious look on his face. "You don't know anything," he shouts. "You don't know what I did."

"Then tell me," I say quietly. He shakes his head. "What happened to Seth?"

"Don't you follow the news? It was everywhere," he says in a hollow, grief-choked voice. "Surely you've heard how Edward Fucking Cullen put his business manager and lover on a plane and sent him off to die."

"But Edward," I protest gently, now recalling a different version of the story, "it wasn't your fault."

"What the hell do you know? I should have been on that plane, not him," he mutters.

"Yeah, well, you weren't. I'm sorry that your boyfriend died," I say, a bit more flippantly than I intended. "Really I am," I amend carefully, "but I'm glad you didn't die and Isabella didn't die. You both would have been on that plane with him, right? If her connecting flight hadn't been late?"

How do I know this stuff? Suddenly, I vaguely remember the chef at Katerina's showing me an article in _People _magazine as I washed salad greens one night shortly after it happened... last year... right around Christmas...

"He didn't have to take that flight; he could have waited for you. It wasn't your fault, Edward," I repeat, terrified that he is about to walk out of my life again, filled with self-loathing for a plane crash over which he had had no control.

The air is thick with silence for several moments, broken only by the slow, steady drip from a leaky faucet, the soundtrack for Edward's tears.

"I met Seth when he was a roadie for the Pat Metheny Group during the Bright as Day tour," he begins in a low voice.

I remember that summer tour. I was 16 years old and I thought Pat Metheny was a fucking genius. I rode my battered old Honda 250 motorcycle to every one of his concerts in the Midwest – Illinois, Wisconsin, Indiana, even Ohio. Edward had stepped in for Lyle Mays at the last minute. That was the first time I had ever heard him perform live and it still gives me goosebumps to think about those performances. Now I'm grateful that I hadn't recalled this fact before the set. He's already intimidating enough as it is.

"He was 18 and I was 19," he continues slowly. "It was the first time I'd been allowed to travel without my parents and here was this beautiful Quileute boy who loved _me_, not my fame or my talent or my money or connections. I never met anyone so giving, so selfless. He taught me everything I know about love until Isa came along..." He faltered, and I could see fresh tears on his face.

I've never had a Seth in my life, someone who loved me with no strings attached, and I ache for Edward and his loss.

"Edward," I say, "she's a beautiful child. Anyone can tell that you're a really good father. I'm sorry that Seth died," I tell him again. "But I'm so glad you're here... right now... with me," I add fervently.

He doesn't say anything as he stands up and walks over to the sink next to me. He splashes some water on his face, then turns toward me.

"So am I," he says with equal fervor as he reaches up to caress my face. I move toward him as he licks his lips. This time there are no phones; he isn't getting ready to leave a message. Or maybe he's gonna send me a message, the kind of message I've been hoping to receive ever since I first laid eyes on him.

I run my fingers through his hair and pull him into a rough kiss. It isn't delicate; it doesn't start out soft or build slowly. It goes from zero to 90 in less than five seconds. It's a Maserati of a kiss, a Lamborghini, all sleek and shiny and hard, with powerful curves and racing engines. My heart is pounding as I press my body against his and I can feel his heart pounding too as I suck on his lower lip, then probe with my tongue until it meets his. I can feel his moan before I hear it. It sends a shiver down my spine and straight to my cock

As our kiss deepens, I feel his arms wrap around me, pulling me closer. I run my hands down his back to his muscular ass and grind my hips into his, letting him know how he makes me feel, and how much I like the feeling of his body close to mine. Even through my old denim jeans and his tailored wool slacks I can tell that his cock is as hard as mine.

I want to taste him so badly. I want to unzip him and then blow his mind. I get even harder as I think about turning him around, bending him over the sink, and coming deep inside him.

But not here. Not Edward Cullen. Right now he deserves something better than a tryst in a restaurant bathroom, something more than just a quick fuck.

And, I am surprised to realize, so do I.

When we finally come up for air, I open my eyes and see myself in the mirror. I can't help but laugh at the sight of bad-ass Jasper Whitlock in his leather jacket, lips swollen from kissing, eyes glazed with lust, and a jaunty Santa hat still sitting on his golden locks.

Edward stares at the mirror with a startled expression on his face. I know I'm not the one he's missing, the one with the shock of black hair and the burnished copper skin that I remember from publicity photos. I'm not the one with the familiar angles and muscles, ripples and bulges.

But perhaps he'll let me be the one tonight. The one who's here now. The one who can carry his bags without feeling like a servant. The one who can anchor him when the tsunami of loss threatens to drown him again.

The one he kisses; the one who kisses him back.

Real. Flesh and bone. Alive.

Is he ready for this? I don't know.

Am I ready for what comes after? For how I'll feel when he flies away, back to the outer stratosphere where he has always lived?

I don't know that either, but I'm willing to find out.

As the song says, I can learn. And maybe he can too.

* * *

A/N: TruceOver and winterstale took time out from their holiday preparations to give me the most amazing feedback on earlier drafts of this story. I hope they'll be able to see how their perceptive insights helped to make Jasper a better person. References to Spin are my homage to starfish422, who provided reassurance regarding a section of the story that ended up getting cut for the moment. DarkBlueBella held my hand during the anxiety-attack phase of writing this story. Merry Christmas and many thanks to all of you for your support. And thanks to Reni, not only for providing a great prompt that took me to unexpected places but also for allowing me to share the results of this journey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** SM owns the characters; The White Stripes own "I Can Learn." (Rated M for M/M slash)

This work of fanfiction is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. (http : / / creative commons . org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/).

**A/N:** I want to thank everyone who alerted this story for your patience and your faith in the possibility of _more_. I know that many readers don't like alternate POVs for previous chapters, but I'd like to think that Edward's POV will be helpful here because it has been so long since the first chapter was posted. Hopefully, you will also be pleased to discover that this is more than just a rehash of Chapter 1.

* * *

**EPOV **

_I'll never forget the first time I saw Seth. _

_There I was, a shy, socially awkward Brit, barely 19 years old, and still in shock at finding myself on stage with Pat Metheny, sitting in the very position that had been occupied for years by the brilliant Lyle Mays. When Lyle had to bail out of the tour, I was absolutely thrilled to be the one who got the call. Pat was my hero, a guy who started teaching college-level guitar classes when he was 18, and he was still an innovator years later. _

_On the road, Pat's bass player, Steve Rodby, took me under his wing and made sure I was doing okay. I appreciated his kindness, and although it wasn't always easy, I usually managed to laugh at all the pranks and jokes that went along with being the new kid joining an established group. I had led a very sheltered life until then and was thrilled to finally be liberated from my well-meaning but very overprotective parents. I had nearly died of embarrassment when my mother tried to come along, and I was especially grateful to Steve when he cut the apron strings so diplomatically that she dropped in only twice during the three-month tour. _

_Everything was so new and exciting, but what really took my breath away was Seth. At rehearsal on the very first day, I immediately noticed the beautiful Native American boy who helped me position the piano and made sure that I never ran out of bottled water. He had the most amazing black hair, long and glossy, down past his shoulders. He wore it tied back with a piece of leather that he claimed had been tanned by his great-grandfather. He usually wore plain white t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers to do the stage set-up, but it was hot at the outdoor venues in the Midwest, and he inevitably stripped off his shirt to do the heavy lifting. _

_Every time I saw him shirtless I just wanted to touch him, to run my fingers over his beautiful burnished skin, to feel his muscles contract and relax in response to my caresses. It was the first time in my life that my fingers craved to wander over something other than piano keys. During the first two weeks I think I might have spent more time in the shower masturbating than I did on stage. _

_And then he started touching me. An accidental brushing of fingers on my sleeve to get my attention – as if he didn't already own it completely... A casual hand on my shoulder as he reached over to put another bottle of water on the piano while I practiced... Passing in doorways where neither one of us would give way until we did the awkward dance of "You go." "No, you go..." One day he just stopped, blocking a doorway until I looked at him._

_What I saw took my breath away. His black eyes burned with an intensity that startled me. At first I thought he was angry with me for some reason that I couldn't fathom; we had barely spoken, and usually only for the most trivial of reasons. But this was different._

"_Edward," he said in a low voice. Gone was the cheerful face he usually showed me. In its place was a look of ferocious pleading. "Edward," he repeated as his eyes searched mine. _

"_Yes," I said – an affirmation, not a question – before reaching up with trembling hands to hold his head still while I leaned in for a kiss. I was so nervous, afraid that I might have misread his signals, but then he uttered a strangled-sounding moan and kissed me back, hard. _

_That wasn't the only hard thing that day. As his tongue sought mine, he pressed his hips against me, and I felt his beautiful cock for the very first time..._

**December 23**

As a concert pianist, I travel all over the world, taking my daughter Isabella with me most of the time. Fame at an early age meant that I grew up isolated from most people's typical life experiences. My daughter's upbringing is similar, with the added complication of security concerns that were largely absent when I was a child, but I am determined that she will benefit fully from our unusual lifestyle. I can show her the world. And so I do.

Chicago has always been one of my favorite cities. I love the architecture and the lakefront. I love the experience of working with the Chicago Philharmonic, and the downtime that follows.

Or rather, I used to love it. Until last year.

It was so perfect last Christmas. I remember how festive the city looked with a fresh dusting of snow that added to the holiday spirit. I had a fantastic experience with the Chicago Philharmonic, with an enthusiastic conductor leading a wonderful orchestra in a concert venue that is an acoustic marvel. They wanted me back again this year, and I relished the idea of a new tradition being born, one in which I was a creative contributor, bringing so much joy to so many people at this time of year.

Seth was still alive then, still my life partner and business manager, flying high on a new deal he had just worked out. And our staffing woes had finally been resolved after the misery of an unsuitable nanny. Angela Weber had been with us for only two months, but Isa already loved her. From all reports, their visit to Washington had been going well, and they were en route to join us in Chicago before we all flew to London to spend Christmas with my parents.

And then he died.

Now I've had a year to prepare myself, to get used to the idea of coming back here, sleeping alone in the same bed that used to be perfect for two. I go through the motions, fulfilling obligations and commitments, without the love and passion that ruled my life before.

I'll never get used to it. I often wonder if I will ever feel that passion again. For playing. For another man. For life. Part of me wants to wallow in the sorrow of that lost perfection, while another part is growing increasingly desperate for some sort of closure, some way to come to terms with all this.

My mother calls me a masochist for coming back to the same guest house, and perhaps I am. This is not going well. Considering how I feel now, I probably should take her advice and find another place to stay when I come back here.

If I ever come back here again.

In any case, we are here now, and I couldn't relocate my entourage even if I wanted to. Fortunately, the five suites of the Villa D'Citta continue to be sufficient for our needs. This time, in addition to wonderful nanny Angela, Isa and I find ourselves in the company of Felix Volturi and his younger brother, Demetri, who share duties as drivers and security staff. Rosalie Hale, my dynamic personal assistant, was here until this morning, when she left to spend the holidays with her family in New York.

The best thing about this place is the spaciousness. We can be together as much as we want in the living and dining areas, or hang out in our suites without feeling claustrophobic. Last year, it felt like our home away from home, but this year...

Right now, what feels claustrophobic to me is the idea that I have to take Felix or Demetri with me just to do some Christmas shopping with Isa. The concert went better than expected last night, and now I just want to relax a little. It's not like my face is famous – I've never had a problem with the paparazzi – but Felix has an overactive imagination about most situations and tends to go into Code-Red mode before he finally calms down.

Leah and Carlie, Isa's half-sisters, have been telling her about going to see Santa Claus, and now she wants to do it too. Angela did the research and found a nice mall – the Lincolnwood Town Center – with a Santa that kids can visit and talk to in a little gingerbread house, not out in the open somewhere. Today Angela has the day off to finish her shopping, and Felix has promised me that he will just drop us off and circle the area, rather than park and shadow us through the mall.

"Daddy, we're here!" Isa's excited voice brings me out of my reverie.

I jump out of the Escalade almost before it has stopped in front of the entrance to the mall, before Felix can insist on joining us. The sidewalk is a bit slushy, so I pick Isa up and carry her into the building. She turns to wave at Felix as he drives off, and for a moment, her profile reminds me of her mother, Bella Swan-Black, Seth's sister-in-law.

I count my blessings every day that Bella has such a big heart. Without her, we wouldn't have our strange and wonderful family, and I wouldn't have Isa.

_Isa was our little miracle. Sometimes I can hardly believe that she came from me, Bella, and a do-it-yourself kit. _

_Seth had always known that he wanted to have kids someday, and he eventually convinced me too, but he also knew what the climate was like in the U.S. for gay parents trying to adopt, especially gay men, and the U.K. wasn't much better. _

_It was his stepbrother, Jacob Black, who came up with the idea. He'd had a vasectomy after Leah was born – he and Bella were very happy with two kids – but he knew how much his wife had loved being pregnant. We were thrilled when he told us that she was willing to be our surrogate mother. _

_I offered to pay for in-vitro fertilization, but Jacob and Bella said we were crazy to spend so much money on something like that. So we put the money into trust funds for their daughters' college education and opted for another method._

"_What the hell is that?" I asked as I examined the box Bella handed to me. "A turkey baster?"_

"_It's a self-semination kit, Edward," Jacob said with a laugh. "As much as I love you man, you aren't going to be basting my wife. If you know what I mean."_

_My face turned bright red and Seth laughed, then pulled me into his arms. "We're doing this," he said. "We're really going to do this. We're making a baby."_

_It took about three months for it to finally work, but the third time was the charm, and Isabella was the miraculous result, named after her mother. After she was born, we didn't need DNA testing to figure out who was the biological father. Seth didn't care. He loved her so much._

The mall is very crowded, something I hadn't really considered when I was planning this little escapade. Once we are inside, I put Isa down, but now she has a death grip on my hand. We follow the signs toward Santa's Gingerbread House," doing a bit of window-shopping along the way.

Isa starts to pull me into a toy shop, until I remind her of our plan to rendezvous with the big guy himself. I love seeing the excitement in her eyes, but her tight grip on my hand tells me that she's also a little nervous about all this.

We soon encounter a massive line snaking down the concourse, full of the most amazing collection of little bodies that I have ever seen together in one place. They all seem to be moving. Pulling away from adult arms, jumping up and down with excitement, flailing with frustration at the long wait, begging for something to eat or drink, rejecting whatever their parents offer them to eat or drink, straying out of the line, clutching at themselves in the international kids' sign for "Hurry, Mum, I have to go to the loo..."

We end up waiting about thirty minutes to get to the front of the line. Isa spends most of that time cuddled in my arms, looking around with wide eyes at this seething mass of humanity, occasionally whispering something to me about how "that boy in the blue jacket is picking his nose, Daddy" or "the girl with the Hello Kitty backpack is smiling at me, Daddy."

I wince a little at that last one. Angela has been talking to me about how Isa needs to spend more time with children her own age. I agree with her, but with my schedule, we just haven't figured out how to make that happen yet. The closest we come is having her spend as much time as she can with her half-sisters in Forks. Ours is a curious family arrangement, I know, but it works for us.

And then she says something that breaks my heart.

"I wish Papa was here with us."

Just as Bella has done with so many other issues, she had very neatly solved the problem of naming two fathers. I was Daddy, and Seth was Papa, which Isa accepted immediately. Now, she is the only one who speaks of Seth naturally, as if he has just gone out for a while, instead of dying in that plane crash last Christmas. Sometimes it is such a relief to hear her talk like this; other times, I just want to howl in rage and sorrow. I worry about how all this has affected her. Occasionally, it seems as if she doesn't really understand about his death and is holding onto some sort of hope that he'll return one day.

"I miss him too, Isa." I can barely get the words past the lump in my throat and am very relieved when someone touches my arm. Wearing a ridiculously short green dress trimmed in white, with a matching cap, the petite blonde is clearly supposed to represent some aspect of the Santa experience, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it is, especially when I see her matching green panties as she leads the way toward the faux gingerbread house.

I put Isa down and take her hand to follow the young woman up the ramp and into the house, ducking my head to pass through the doorway behind her. A rumpled-looking Santa, his false beard slightly askew, sits on an impressive throne placed on an elevated dais. He is talking with another young woman, also dressed in green.

I'm a little surprised to discover that the place looks rather nice. Someone actually put some effort into making it a lovely Christmas fantasy. A richly decorated Christmas tree stands in one corner, with dozens of wrapped packages spilling out from underneath it. A little fireplace disguises an electric heater, which keeps the room at a comfortable temperature. The walls are painted with pictures of elves dressed in red and green, busily assembling toys.

Oh. I finally get it: These two young women are supposed to be elves. The one standing next to Santa has her mouth open and Santa gently reaches up to push it closed with one finger. She comes down the steps and extends her hand toward Isa, who looks back at me a little uncertainly.

"It's okay, Isa. Go on now," I tell her. She seems reassured and lets go of my hand as the young woman starts talking to her. Isa comports herself beautifully, responding politely to the young woman's questions. She's usually rather shy about meeting new people, and I'm very proud of her right now.

"Oh, what lovely manners!" the elf-woman gushes. "She's adorable." The young woman is blinking rapidly; perhaps there's something in her eye.

"Thank you." I try to smile encouragingly at Isa, who seems reassured, taking the young woman's hand and walking up a few steps to meet Santa. He looks too thin to be convincing, even with the lumpy padding in his suit, but he lifts her easily onto his lap and starts talking to her in a friendly voice.

When he asks her what she wants for Christmas, she turns around and looks at me with a strange expression on her face. I'm not sure what's going on here. Angela gave us a thorough debriefing before we left this morning, telling us what to expect, and she had been more or less correct about everything so far. My parents certainly never took me to a shopping center to visit Santa when I was a child. They were too busy expanding the family fortune, and I was always sitting on a piano bench somewhere.

Isa turns back to Santa and whispers something in his ear. He gets an expression on his face that looks like a combination of humor and panic. The elf-woman standing next to him giggles a little. I begin to pay more attention to the conversation.

"I'm sorry, honey," Santa says. "Santa is a little behind on e-mails at this time of the year. Couldn't you just tell me now?"

For a moment, Isa looks like she's going to cry, but then she just sighs and starts speaking to him again. This time I can hear what she's saying, and it breaks my heart all over again.

"Can you bring my papa back?"

I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over. This is horrible. I thought she would ask for a doll or something. I could give her any toy in the world. But this... I've tried so hard to hide my grief from Isa, walking a fine line of showing her that Seth will always be a part of our lives, while moving on at the same time. Maybe the problem is that I don't want to move on. I don't want _us_ to move on.

All I want is Seth.

I am startled out of my sorrow by a question from Santa.

"Who's Carlie and Leah?"

She sighs impatiently. "My _sisters_."

"Why don't you live with them?"

I'm getting a little uncomfortable with these questions. Even his assistant looks a little concerned. What does all of this have to do with what Isa wants for Christmas?

"Because I live with my daddy and my papa, silly," she says, but her lower lip trembles.

"I'm sorry about your papa," Santa says. "Where did he go?"

"Mama says he went to heaven but I don't believe her. How can you get to heaven when they put you in the ground?" I see a tear roll down her cheek, and my throat closes around a stifled sob. What on earth made me think this was a good idea? I could feel a cold sweat break out under my shirt. And Santa just won't shut up. He's still asking questions.

"What does your... daddy say?"

"He says maybe Papa Seth went to heaven but he still lives in our hearts... Can you bring him back, Santa? I miss him so much and my daddy is so sad."

I'm not sure I can take much more of this. I thought we were doing so well. I didn't realize how much she had noticed...

"I'm sorry for your loss," Santa says.

I am pulled back from the edge of panic by the sound of his voice. It's louder now and I realize that he's speaking to me. I notice that his pale blue eyes are sympathetic, shining with emotion as if he too feels like crying. "Thanks," I reply, but then images of my last moments with Seth flood my memory and I have to turn away.

_He paces back and forth in front of me in the first-class lounge, texting constantly. _

"_Sit down, Seth, please," I beg him. The weather forecast has not been great, and I wonder if Isa's flight is ever going to arrive. Our two-hour window between flights is nearly closed now. Even if she and Angela disembark right this minute, I don't think we can make it onto our flight to London. _

"_Stop saying that," he says sharply. I'm surprised by his tone. We seldom get angry with each other, and certainly never over something as trivial as a missed flight. When it happens, as it occasionally does, Seth is never as irritated as he is tonight._

_I get a text from Rosalie and laugh. "Aha! She's done it again, Seth. We're all set."_

"_What are you talking about, Edward?" he asks, looking up from his phone with a scowl on his face. _

"_Rooms. At the Hilton. She managed to get three rooms for us. Now all we need is Isa and Angela and we can call it a night."_

"_Edward, that's impossible. Our flight is boarding. Let Felix and Demetri do their job and take them to the hotel. We have to go. Now." _

"_Are you suggesting that we fly to London without Isa?" I am completely baffled by this._

"_That's exactly what I'm suggesting. She'll be there tomorrow. Let's go, Edward."_

"_No, Seth. We can't leave her here. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Do you really want Isa to spend Christmas Eve with... employees? She needs to be with us."_

_Seth rolls his eyes. "Oh, Edward, just listen to yourself. She's five years old. She's not gonna remember being apart from you for twelve fucking hours."_

_I'm speechless. I've never heard him talk like this before. "What's going on, Seth? Why are you so stressed out?"_

"_I'll explain it on the plane," he promises brusquely as he picks up our carry-on bags in one hand and holds out the other to help me up. "C'mon, Edward. They're doing the final boarding now. Call Rosalie and tell her we're leaving."_

"_No, Seth. We have to stay."_

_He looks at me like I'm the one talking crazy. Then he shrugs, sets my bag on the seat next to me, and pulls out our travel documents. He separates my passport, itinerary, and tickets from his and hands them to me. "Edward, I have a meeting in London first thing in the morning. If I'm not there, we're gonna have a major problem."_

"_What kind of problem, Seth? Tell me what's going on," I plead._

"_No time, pretty boy," he say, softening momentarily as he leans down to kiss me quickly before straightening up again and looking at his watch. "Gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"_

"_I love you, Seth," I say, but he's already gone, running gracefully across the lounge and disappearing out the door. _

_I'm alone for the first time in... years, I realize with astonishment. _

_But not for long. Seth has been gone for less than five minutes when Angela texts to say that they are on the ground, taxiing to the gate. I call her immediately, explaining the change in plans, and instruct her to take Isa and go with Felix and Demetri directly to the hotel, which is just across from their terminal._

_I collect my things and make my way from the lounge to the airport shuttle, bemused at the thought of moving so freely. No boyfriend, no security or drivers. No child or nanny. No assistants or parents. Just me. I chuckle at the thought of how horrified my insurance agent at Lloyd's of London would be if he knew that my precious hands – insured for millions – are completely unprotected at the moment. _

_Somehow I manage to arrive safely at the hotel, hands intact, before Felix sends out a search party. After the two-hour delay in the departure from Seattle, and the four-hour flight to Chicago, Isa is exhausted. She's sound asleep when the TV news bulletin comes on just before midnight, reporting that a plane has crashed off the coast of Greenland – Seth's plane..._

I'm pulled back into the present by Santa's voice. "Hey, Dad, do you want to get a photo here?"

"Oh... Wait a minute, Isa." She sits patiently while I choose the settings and take a few shots. I'm still distracted by the memory of Seth, until Isa takes my hand, leading me out of the gingerbread house.

If anything, the crowd of shoppers has become even more densely packed. Not my favorite situation, but fortunately, our luck seems to be holding. No one recognizes me, and I am grateful, as always, for the care Seth took in marketing my music and not my appearance. Everyone in the business said he was crazy to work that angle, especially since they all seemed to think they were giving me a compliment by telling me that I should be a model.

Seth thought it was hilarious. The first time he heard some ingratiating publicist say that, he started calling me "pretty boy" whenever he thought he could get away with it. He knew how ridiculous I thought it was, and how much I appreciated being able to move relatively anonymously through the world much of the time, thanks to him.

"_No time, pretty boy..."_

Isa and I take the elevator to the upper level of the mall and meander through some of the shops. We get a little silly, buying something fragrant for everyone at Bath and Body Works, then take turns trying on hats in another shop, where I find a cashmere beret in a cerulean blue that I know will please my mother. As I start thinking that perhaps it's time to leave, Isa asks if we can have some ice cream – never mind that it's a cold winter day – and a sympathetic security guard directs us to Haagen Dazs on the lower level.

We get there eventually, but not before a quick detour into the Kids Footlocker, where she squeals with delight when she finds a pair of sneakers covered with pink and turquoise flowers. "They're Converse, Daddy," she says excitedly. "Just like Carlie and Leah's!"

I try not to indulge her whims too often, but the thought of my mother's scandalized face when she sees these shoes on Isa's feet is just too good to pass up. After all, Isa can't wear lace and taffeta and patent-leather shoes all the time.

It's closer to dinner time than snack time when we finally get to the ice-cream shop, but that doesn't matter to Isa. She chooses two scoops of mango sorbet – "Papa's favorite," she reminds me, as if I will ever forget – which she promises to share with me. We collapse into the uncomfortable chairs, where we make short work of the sorbet before taking out her new shoes to admire them again until I get a rather worried text from Felix.

It's time to go back to the guest house. I reply to Felix to let him know that we're on our way. We toss our trash into the wastebasket and then put on our coats as I collect all the bags we've accumulated. I'm backing out the door, trying to hold onto the bags while making sure Isa's coming out behind me, when suddenly someone crashes into me and bags go flying everywhere.

"Bloody hell," I mutter before I can restrain myself.

"Daddy!" Isa's eyes are as wide as saucers. "Granny says we should never say 'bloody' anything. And you said 'hell'!"

Yes, leave it to my mother to cover all the bases of polite speech. I am so busted. Not only will Isa remember to tell my mother, but I'm sure she will eventually end up regaling Bella's family back in Washington with the story of how Daddy said not one bad word, but two. I'm never going to hear the end of this.

I try to remember if there is anything breakable in any of the bags. Thank god I decided against buying those Baccarat crystal goblets. I begin to realize that the guy who ran into me is deeply apologetic as he scrambles around the floor, picking up my scattered bags.

He's tall – a little taller than me actually – handsome, and practically vibrating with sex appeal. His blond hair – I think they call it dishwater blond here in the States – curls around his face while the rest is pulled back behind his ears in a ponytail that doesn't seem to be very effective. A lot of it is falling forward onto his face as he bends over each bag. He keeps pushing it back behind his ears, only to have it fall forward again.

He finally straightens up and moves toward where Isa and I seem to be rooted to the floor. He holds out the bags gingerly, as if he thinks I might go ballistic on him. His eyes are so blue – a clear blue that remind me of the sea – and he has dimples when he smiles. Or smirks, as the case may be. I'm not sure what he's doing at the moment, but unfortunately, I'm not going to find out any time soon, because I am suddenly confronted by some of my adoring public.

Two very polite ladies have recognized me and are all aflutter when they confirm my identity. I try to be polite, but I'm surprised to discover how disappointed I am by the interruption. I feel Isa's hands clutching my coat, hiding behind me as she always does when strangers approach. She hates being confronted by strangers even more than I do. After the pleasure of our afternoon together, I now feel a quick jolt of panic and regret for having left Felix outside circling the mall. I begin the ritual of _grateful artist responding to fans_ – polite chitchat, autographs, a few photos – but I just want to get the hell out of there.

I flash momentarily to the days when Isa was much younger and would hide under my coat, her two chubby legs and shiny shoes the only visible parts of her. I reach around behind my back and pat her reassuringly on the head to let her know that I haven't forgotten her. She responds by burrowing her head more deeply into the back of my coat.

In the meantime, the blond guy just stands there holding my bags, looking surprised by the sudden intrusion. It's like they've burst his bubble too, and now he looks adrift, as if he's trying to figure out what the hell he's going do with those bags. Drop them and run? Or just run? Instead, he stands there holding them, as the two ladies start babbling.

I notice the shocked expression on his face when he hears my name, and I feel a funny little flutter in my heart. He didn't know who I was when he ran into me, but he clearly recognizes my name now. Is that a good thing? From the expression on his face, he seems to be struggling with the same question.

I've seen it happen before. I'll be having a perfectly lovely conversation with a stranger, when something happens to tip them off as to my identity and everything changes. Will everything change with this guy too? Will he be cool about it? Or is he going to embarrass us both? I hate the fawning adoration of fans who see only the celebrity and never the person.

I'm still a man. A widower. But I'm not blind. And, apparently, I'm not quite as dead below the waist as I have led myself to believe. For even as I sign programs and smile for photos with the two ladies, I keep him in sight. And what a sight he is. He looks great in jeans, and a well-worn black leather jacket adds a touch of intrigue. And that ridiculous red Santa hat trimmed in white makes for a totally incongruous impression.

But it doesn't really matter what he's wearing; I keep coming back to those eyes. So different from Seth's dark depths, always filled with burning intensity when we were alone and couldn't get close enough, especially after long absences... This guy's eyes make me think of blue skies and an open road...

I do my best to be polite to the ladies, and soon they contain their swooniness and go on about their business. I'm glad the guy is still there, but it feels awkward too. I have no idea what to say to him. Should I just take my bags and leave? Ask him if he needs a ride?

Instead, I turn my attention to Isa, who is now clinging to my legs like a leech. I pry her loose and pick her up, eager to reassure her that the worst is over. She's shaking a little, most likely remembering some of the scenes that erupted around us everywhere we went after Seth died. The worst was in Tokyo in February, when an overzealous fan showed Isa a framed photo of Seth and me, then proceeded to drop it on the floor and smash it with her feet, screaming something in Japanese that I later learned was a very hostile invective against gays.

Not a fan after all.

Isa had nightmares for weeks after that, and she is still very clingy whenever we are out in public together. I turn away, looking for a place to sit down with her for a minute when I hear my name.

The man holding my bags starts talking again, telling me that we've met before. I practically scoff at him, ready to accuse him of lying. I've never laid eyes on this fellow before, although I am quite surprised to notice that part of me seems to be very pleased to see him now. Then he starts pointing at the ridiculous red and white Santa hat he's wearing.

Isa comes to the rescue. Somehow she recognizes that he is – or was – the rumpled-looking Santa that we met an hour ago. The one who asked so many questions, who expressed his condolences so sincerely...

I realize that it wasn't Santa Claus who had done those things; it was this man, the one standing before me now, someone who doesn't seem to scare Isa the way strangers usually do. Somehow he has managed to transform himself from a lumpy Santa into this good-looking guy, and his continuing presence before me seems to be a challenge and a gift all rolled into one. Do I want to unwrap him? Am I ready to discover another man?

Wait a minute. What does Isa mean, she knows all about Santa? Until now, I thought her belief in Santa would continue for a while longer, but of course I knew that she would find out sooner or later. The conversation becomes increasingly ridiculous until Isa and I are laughing, and I'm phoning Bella to report Leah's transgression.

More importantly, I'm asking for this guy's name.

As I do, I'm looking him over, thinking that he must be a pretty good actor, because I never guessed that such an attractive man was hiding under that awful costume. Then his eyes meet mine, and I see something in them that makes me feel like I'm staring at a mirror of my own loneliness and... desire? I'm startled by the silent intensity between us and am caught unawares when Bella's voice mail comes on.

_Jasper Whitlock_.

I end the call, and then all of a sudden, I'm... making a date for dinner?

We seem to be doing fine until he starts cursing. It's bad enough that Isa heard me a few minutes ago; this absolutely cannot be tolerated.

He apologizes immediately, then proceeds to explain about how he usually works in some restaurant, but tonight he's scheduled to play at an open-mic session. He thinks it means we can't have dinner together. However, where he sees complications, I see possibilities. "Shall we go?"

I'm delighted to see him nod, although he still has a strange expression on his face, as if he can't quite believe what's happening. Neither can I. I haven't flirted with anyone since Seth died.

I reposition Isa in my arms, then reach for the shopping bags I'd dropped.

"Oh, I'm so sorry about that," he says.

"I'm certainly not," comes out of my mouth before I realize what I'm saying. His smile in response is just beautiful, but then feelings of guilt wash over me and I snap at his kind offer to carry the bags. I'm embarrassed because my rudeness isn't his fault; he just catches me at a moment when suddenly all I can see is Seth, standing between us with a reproachful look on his face, as if he were saying _Oh baby, how can you do this to me?_

And then I surprise myself again. For the first time in a year, I start to wonder whether it might be time to change that look – or my interpretation of it – to something like _Oh baby, how can you still be doing this to yourself?_

Once again, Isa comes to the rescue, talking about good manners, and we eventually make our way out of the mall. Felix is waiting in the Escalade. He growls a bit at me for taking so long, but soon we are on our way, taking Isa back to the guest house before we head over to our dinner destination – a place called Katerina's.

It's almost 8:00 by the time we get there. I order calamari and souvlaki, with a bottle of ouzo to go with it. Jasper looks a little unwell and eats very little, but he joins me for every toast that I make – to Christmas and Katerina's and Santa Claus and Chicago. After the fourth one, I'm feeling pretty good, and wondering how Jasper is going to play his set if he's as drunk as I am. Then he asks a question that makes me think he's not so drunk after all.

"What were you doing last year at this time?"

I struggle to speak. "Last year we were right here in Chicago, doing the Christmas concert with the Philharmonic for the first time," he says. "Seth had just negotiated a new recording contract and..." I can't go on, but he does.

"Here's to Seth," he says, holding up his glass. I choke on the ouzo already in my mouth and quickly recover. Jasper reaches for my hand, but then starts to pull away, as if he's had second thoughts. I grab it and hold on like a drowning man.

"To Seth," I manage to say, "and to a new friend." We clink our glasses and then drink.

A beautiful woman approaches our table, and I cringe at the thought of her hitting on us. It would scarcely be the first time that has happened. I turn on _public-persona Edward_ for her benefit, hoping that Jasper will look a little less uncomfortable when I do.

She's tall and graceful, with long, straight, pale blond hair. It reminds me of corn silk. She's wearing one of those bandage dresses, and it wraps around her body like a glove, emphasizing all of her curves. It's a pale blue color that adds to the ethereal effect she's got going with her hair and make-up. She walks with a confidence that suggests she has approached men many times before, with great success.

I sigh. I hate to disappoint, but all that artistry is wasted on me.

"Edward Cullen," she says, and I groan inwardly at the loss of anonymity. "Welcome to Katerina's." She gives Jasper a look that I can't decipher. She's certainly not his girlfriend, unless I've misread all the signals. Now it's my turn to give him a look.

He squirms in his seat as she speaks again.

"I'm Katerina Denali, and I'm delighted that you could join us this evening," she purrs. "I'm sorry I missed your concert last night. I understand from the reviews that it was pretty spectacular. As usual."

I never know what to say to stuff like that, so I stick to the basics. "Thank you, ma'am."

She has a melodic laugh, like Tibetan chimes. "Oh, please, Edward. Call me Kate. 'Ma'am' is my mother."

"Yes, ma- … Yes, Kate."

"Now, Edward," she begins as she leans over the table. I all but roll my eyes at the cleavage on display. "It's open-mic night. Jasper has probably told you that he and his little band are scheduled to play. Is there any chance that you would grace our stage with one or two short pieces from your repertoire?"

"Um... well, Kate, that's a very generous invitation. I've heard so much about this place," I fib. "But I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline. Maybe the next time I'm in Chicago..."

I see the flash of disappointment in her eyes. She's obviously a woman who is used to getting what she wants. However, she's also smart enough not to burn any bridges with me, so she quickly recovers and tells me to enjoy my evening before moving on to speak to guests at the next table.

Jasper still looks uncomfortable, but I don't get a chance to ask him what's going on. He excuses himself and starts to slide off the banquette where we are sitting, gesturing toward the tiny stage, where two guys are warming up. I'm startled to realize that I'm still holding his hand. I'm even more surprised to realize that I don't want to let go.

"What are you playing tonight?" I ask him. He pulls a playlist from his pocket and reads four titles, explaining that they'll play the first three, plus one more as an encore if they get the go-ahead signal from Kate. I'm familiar with most of them, and I make a sudden decision.

"Jasper..." He's looking down at where our hands are joined, with a little smile on his lips. It takes a moment before he responds. "...would you mind if I sat in?"

Before he can reply, he is punched in the shoulder by a petite young woman dancing around like she's ready to go ten rounds with him. She starts babbling about waiting and buses, then flits off suddenly, reminding me of a little hummingbird, to greet the other two members of Jasper's trio.

She finally stops moving long enough to notice that Jasper is holding my hand. Her eyes widen, and I realize that she looks vaguely familiar. Jasper introduces us as I take in her look of dumbfounded astonishment.

"Alice," I nod and extend my free hand to shake hers, then suddenly understand why she looks familiar. "The elf-girl!"

At that, the guy who is with her gets this huge smile on his face and starts to speak, but she puts a finger to his lips, blushing. "Not now, sweetie."

Jasper laughs and I turn to him curiously, wondering what is going on.

"Apparently Garrett is an _aficionado_ of elves," he explains.

"Brilliant." I can't help smiling. I'm always intrigued by the secret desires of others and how they get expressed. Elves? That's a new one. I recall the scanty green and white costumes from the gingerbread house and I can see how it might be quite appealing – for some guys.

My musings are interrupted when Jasper speaks to me again, answering the question that I'd all but forgotten I'd asked before the arrival of this human dynamo.

"Edward, we'd be honored – and a little overwhelmed, I think – but you are more than welcome to join us."

I slide around the banquette and stand up, still holding Jasper's hand as I follow him to the stage. Most of the space is taken up by a baby grand piano. I adjust the bench and take a seat. Jasper introduces me to his bandmates, James on the drums and Riley on bass guitar. They look a little shell-shocked, kind of like Jasper looked at the mall when he ran into me.

I hear a little burble of excitement among some of the other diners as I run through a few arpeggios to warm up. Jasper is tuning his guitar and reviewing the set list with the other two guys, talking about how the piano will fit in. All of a sudden, Kate appears before us with an excited gleam in her eyes. I jump in before she can say anything. "Kate, right now I'm just a guy who met Jasper in the mall this afternoon. With his permission, I'm sitting in on a couple of numbers, if that's okay with you."

She nods mutely.

"If one of the guys does introductions at some point, he's welcome to introduce me too. Or not. It's up to them."

She opens her mouth to protest, but again I speak before she can say anything. "I hope you don't mind, Kate, but I'm on holiday and I'm just trying to relax a little."

She sighs, then shrugs before throwing in her last gambit. "Can I record this? For Jasper, I mean."

"How?" Jasper asks.

He looks so excited that I speak again without thinking. "Use my phone." I punch in the settings for digital video recording, then hand it to Alice.

"Ready?" Jasper asks. James and Riley nod. Jasper looks at me, and I can't help but grin. I haven't done anything like this since... ever. The realization hits me with a shock, and suddenly my hands are trembling as I imagine what Seth would say about this. I flash on a moment more than ten years ago during the Pat Metheny tour, not long after we'd become lovers.

_I was practicing one night and he came out on the stage, leaned on the piano and just listened to me play for him. Both of us had the cheesiest grins on our face. We were so young, and in love, and I played my heart out for him. It wasn't long before he came over to me, straddled my lap, and we kissed..._

James taps four beats on the drum, and I am pulled back into the present as we launch into the first song. One of the reasons I had asked about sitting in was that the first three songs were already familiar to me. This one is a classic number by Elton John, one of the pieces I played with Sir Elton when I was twelve.

I adjust to the change of key and a slightly different pacing, but it is the kind of challenge that I love. I throw in a few jazz riffs here and there to liven things up. So far, so good. I begin to feel like I used to feel whenever Seth sat with me while I played.

The next two songs go well, and the crowd is very responsive. When Jasper introduces me, I feel like I really belong. It's a nice moment.

I notice that Kate has given Jasper an enthusiastic two thumbs up for the encore. It's something by the White Stripes that I'm not familiar with, so I relax a bit as I take this opportunity to watch Jasper in action. I never expected the feeling of electricity that surges through my body as he begins.

_I don't know any lullabies,  
I don't know how to make you mine  
but I can learn... _

He turns to face me as he sings. I am dumbfounded by the lyrics, by the fact that this song was chosen long before we ever met.

_No harm will come of this  
one little midnight kiss  
It will not burn... _

For the first time in a year, I want to kiss someone. Someone besides Seth, that is. A wave of guilt rolls over me and I clutch the edge of the piano bench, feeling Seth so near, and yet I am completely drawn to those beautiful blue eyes that have enchanted me all evening long.

The song ends and the trio takes a few well-deserved bows. The stage goes dark as they pack up their equipment, and the murmurs of a hundred conversations rise all around us as people turn back to their dinner partners.

I feel numb. And sad. And so very, very guilty.

I stroke the piano keys, nearly groaning as I remember the discordant noise that arose that night, when I lifted Seth up onto the keys, unbuttoned his jeans, and took him into my mouth for the first time.

Almost before I realize what I am doing, I speak into the mic.

"This is for Seth."

I've never played this for anyone but him. Tonight his ghostly smile haunts me, and I play it for him one last time, ignoring the busy restaurant with all of its customers and staff. Their voices fade into the background when I begin to play.

It has always been a work in progress. That first night on tour it had been melodic, playful and free. New jazzy motifs have worked their way into the piece over the years, and the mournful dissonance emerged after he was gone. Even tonight, there is something new at the end, something that flies out of my fingers and makes me feel like I am pushing my way out of the coffin I buried myself in after Seth died. I briefly flirt with the idea of calling this "Serenade to a Ghost" until the enormity of what I have done – in public, no less – suddenly overwhelms me.

I get up quickly and walk back to our table. The room is completely silent for a moment, and then the applause begins, a groundswell of sound that grows louder and louder.

People are on their feet now, and I'm very grateful for their recognition, but I'm utterly drained and I can barely raise my hand to acknowledge the applause. I become aware of the wetness on my cheeks; I don't know when I started crying. Suddenly, Jasper is pulling me out of my seat and pushing me toward the kitchen. He drags me into the men's room and locks the door.

He leans up against a sink as I go into one of the stalls, close the toilet seat, sit down, and start unspooling paper to blow my nose.

"I'm sorry about this." The tears haven't stopped.

"Edward, you have nothing to be sorry for. You – "

"You don't know anything," I shout. "You don't know what I did." This is all too much, too intense. Panic is building in my chest, the pressure growing more unbearable by the second, and I just want to get out of there.

"Then tell me," he says quietly. "What happened to Seth?"

"Don't you follow the news? It was everywhere. Surely you've heard how Edward Fucking Cullen put his business manager and lover on a plane and sent him off to die."

"But Edward, it wasn't your fault."

"What the hell do you know? I should have been on that plane, not him."

"Yeah, well, you weren't. I'm sorry that your boyfriend died." His abrupt tone makes me cringe. "Really I am," he adds, speaking more carefully, "but I'm glad you didn't die, and Isabella didn't die. You both would have been on that plane with him, right? If her connecting flight hadn't been late?"

I can't speak. A year of rage and sorrow are welling up in my chest.

"He didn't have to take that flight; he could have waited for you. It wasn't your fault, Edward," Jasper says again, looking a little scared now, as if half-expecting my head to start spinning around.

Neither one of us speaks for several moments. The only sound is the slow, steady drip from a leaky faucet. My mind wanders back to a similar scene in a hotel room in Shanghai.

_We had been arguing about something – I no longer remember what; it's not important anyway – and each of us was seething silently, pretending to be busy while we loaded the next rounds of our argument. _

_In the silence, I became aware of a faucet dripping and I started to tap out a counterpoint to the steady drip. A few moments later, I felt him behind me. His arms wrapped around my shoulders, and my hands abandoned the riff as I leaned into his hug and held on tight..._

"I met Seth when he was a roadie for the Pat Metheny Group." I don't know why I'm telling him this, but I can't seem to stop myself. "He was 18 and I was 19. It was the first time I'd been allowed to travel without my parents, and here was this beautiful Quileute boy who loved _me_, not my fame or my talent or my money or connections. I never met anyone so giving, so selfless. He taught me everything I know about love until Isa came along..." I can feel more tears running down my face.

"Edward," Jasper says, "she's a beautiful child. Anyone can tell that you're a really good father. I'm sorry that Seth died, but I'm so glad you're here... right now... with me."

I am drawn to the passion in his voice. I walk over to the sink and splash water on my face before turning toward him.

"So am I," I tell him and slowly reach up to caress his face. I lick my lips as I move toward him. He runs his fingers through my hair and his mouth slams into mine. I half-expect to see sparks flying from the impact. His tongue is in my mouth and his hands are on my ass as he presses his body against mine.

I'm drowning in his kisses. I wrap my arms around him and feel his hands on my ass, pulling me closer. My head is spinning from the ouzo, the emotion on stage, the passion of his kisses.

He pulls away and laughs. I open my eyes and see him looking at himself in the mirror, still wearing that ridiculous Santa hat. And then I catch sight of myself. I look as if I've seen a ghost.

I could get used to this, I think. But who would want to be with a pathetic whinger like me? Certainly not this beautiful man, so completely different from everything I ever knew with Seth. Where Seth was wood smoke and cedar, Jasper is sunshine and freshly cut grass.

Seth was all burnished copper skin and straight dark hair; Jasper is paler than I am, with that wavy blond hair curling around his face when it escapes from his ponytail.

Seth was driven, focused on goals and determined to achieve them. Jasper seems to be so completely the opposite that I don't even have words to describe him. Calling him a slacker doesn't seem fair to slackers. Perhaps "carefree" will do for now.

One thing is not so different, however. Seth always kissed me with such intensity that it made me feel like we were setting the room on fire. With Jasper, it's different, but just as intense. I have already, perhaps recklessly, allowed him to see more of me than I normally share with my employees, let alone with strangers. It's a risk I can't really afford to take, especially where Isa is concerned.

I have every logical reason to walk away, to tell this almost-stranger good-bye. To go back to my life with Isa, the life that Seth left behind. I look up into the mirror at Jasper's reflection in the dim light. His face is pale, his expression anxious, waiting, watching.

The image of Seth that surges into my mind dissipates like fog in the morning sun, leaving only Jasper. Slowly, I turn around.

Jasper is real. He's not Seth, but he's here, and something tells me that this – whatever this is between us – can be real too, if I give it a chance. I've spent the past year thinking that I could never again live a full life without Seth.

Now, for the first time, I think that maybe, just maybe, I can learn.

* * *

A/N: If anyone gets credit for this story moving forward, it should be TruceOver. Not only is she the bestest beta in the whole wide world, but she has been an ardent supporter of this story from the very beginning as a beta, critic, brainstormer, WC partner, and friend. If you like this story, please read her wonderful stories too, and thank her with reviews.

TruceOver was not the only one who saw a future for these boys. When I posted the first chapter last year, for every reviewer who said they wanted more, I wrote back and asked for suggestions. If you continue reading and you like where this story is going, it's largely due to the following: bmango, CherBella, faite-comme-moi, Fliberty, ICMezzo, Kate, mkmmsm, naelany, pippapear, PJ's secret, and sadtomato, all of whom offered plot points, writing guidelines, and/or tons of support. Thank you all so much!

Starfish422 provided comforting reassurance regarding Isa's conception, and TruceOver suggested the brilliant dialogue for the turkey-baster flashback. Kate did an emergency pre-read, providing valuable feedback (and virtual hand-holding) that greatly improved this chapter. In the end, however, any errors, inaccuracies, or other major fails in this story are solely my responsibility.

Now, if you, dear readers, would be so kind as to let me know how you liked this chapter, it would be the best Christmas gift I could imagine!

Happy holidays!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you for your lovely responses to Chapter 2. Thanks also to TruceOver for her formidable beta magic.

This chapter picks up right where Chapters 1 and 2 left off, moving forward from there. Beginning with this chapter, most of the rest of the story will be from Jasper's POV.

Rated M for M/M slash.

* * *

**December 23 **

Someone rattles the locked bathroom door, then pounds on it. "Just a fucking minute!" I yell, angry to have such an intense moment interrupted.

Edward pulls away from me, then runs his fingers through his hair before turning back to the sink to splash more water on his reddened eyes.

I put one hand on his back, but he turns away from the mirror and steps out of reach. "I'll just open this, shall I?" he says as he moves toward the door.

I feel like my head will explode from the volley of contradictory responses that I have to his statement. In the end, I go with a simple "No," as I push him against the door and kiss him again. Hard. He doesn't protest.

Our arms tangle together as we reach around each other's body to reignite the delirious intensity that we were feeling a moment ago. This time it's his hips that are pushing into mine, his whimpers that are challenging my resolve to respect him – and myself. I kiss and lick along his chin, smiling as I recall my initial reaction to seeing him at the mall, then pausing at his ear to tell him in a low voice, "Edward, I want you so much," before adding more kisses to his neck.

But then something changes. The whimpers begin to sound like sobs. I feel my lust drain away as I look at his face. "Edward," I say, slowly and carefully, delivering words that are difficult for me to say, and maybe even harder for him to hear, "I know you miss him, but do you really think he would have wanted you to bury yourself when you buried him? To never be with someone again?"

I almost say, "To never know love again," but it's not love we're talking about here. It's heat and desire, and he's entitled to it just as much as I am.

He puts his hands on my chest but doesn't push me away. It's more like a surrender, his long, beautiful fingers brushing against my chest, telling me that yes, he knows, but his palms press gently, telling me that he's not quite there yet. I cover his hands with mine, then reach up to caress his face. "It's okay, Edward. Maybe we should go, huh?"

He nods.

"We can go out through the kitchen if you want."

He nods again, looking relieved. I call Alice and ask her to bring our coats.

We unlock the door and step out into the short hallway that leads back to the kitchen, sidestepping waiters with trays of food and disgruntled guys waiting for access to the rest room. I can hear music coming from the tiny stage that we had occupied only a few short minutes ago.

"It's about fucking time," mutters someone under his breath, but still loud enough for me to hear. I feel like slapping him, but I don't want to cause any more trouble for Edward than I already have. I see Alice coming toward us carrying our coats, with a bewildered look on her face.

"Thanks, Alice," I say. "You're a lifesaver."

"I thought we were gonna hang out tonight," she begins as I help Edward into his coat. Then she takes a closer look at him. "Oh."

I lean down and kiss her cheek. "Would you tell James and Riley that I had to go? And tell the elf freak that I'm glad you guys came tonight. I'll call you soon."

"You'd better call! Bye, Edward. It was nice meeting you," she says. "Oh, by the way, I put your phone in your coat pocket."

"Thanks, Alice. Merry Christmas."

Edward calls his driver as we walk through the busy kitchen. I don't know if Kate would approve, but I don't care; I just want to get Edward out of there. I don't want him to suffer any longer just because he did something nice by coming here.

As we wait for the car, I find myself wondering if this is something he has to deal with all the time. But then, I reflect, he's never been the kind of guy to go out partying very much. In fact, for all his celebrity, he's not that visible of a public figure, except during his performances. Which may be one reason why I didn't recognize him at the mall. Once I understood who Seth was, though, I recalled seeing more photos of him than I ever saw of Edward. Seth was always very much in the public eye, doing what he did so well, which was promoting Edward Cullen. And promoting himself too, I think, remembering some of his more flamboyant escapades...

We step outside, and find ourselves in a winter wonderland. Huge snowflakes are drifting down and there's already an accumulation of several inches on the sidewalk. The surface of the street is invisible, completely covered with snow. Only a few cars have passed this way, the tire tracks rapidly filling with new snow. The sounds of the city seem distant as we watch the blanket of white fall around us.

"The car's here," Edward says, interrupting my thoughts. "Can we drop you somewhere?" he asks politely, pausing to give me room to make a run for it, I guess. "Or would you care to join me for a drink back at the guest house?"

"I'd like that very much," I reply with a big grin on my face. I'm pleased to see him smile in return.

This time I get to sit in the back seat with Edward. I hold out my hand and I'm happy when he takes it, loving the way he strokes my palm, making soft circles with his thumb. We're quiet on the short ride back to the guest house where he's staying. As we pull up to the entrance, Edward gives instructions to the driver and says good night.

We slip and slide our way through the gate and up the unshoveled sidewalk and steps, still holding hands and helping each other maintain balance. I wonder if this is the beginning of the blizzard that has been forecast.

Even though it's not even midnight yet, no one is awake to greet us, for which I am very grateful. He leads me upstairs and into the sitting room of a huge suite. No sooner has he closed the door behind us when he turns and pushes me against it, and leans in to kiss me hungrily.

Oh my. His kisses are not only sudden, but fierce. Determined. As if he'd made a decision and jumped off a cliff. I have no idea why; maybe he took my earlier words to heart. In any case, I'm ready – so much more than ready – to catch him.

I take everything he gives me – his lips, his tongue, his gasps – until I am lightheaded and my knees feel weak.

When we come up for air, he pulls me into the bedroom and sheds his overcoat, then turns and unzips my jacket as he begins to kiss me again. I feel like I'm in a fever dream as I pull off his suit coat and unbutton his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, letting it land on the floor, forgotten. His upper body is beautifully outlined through his white t-shirt and I quickly get rid of that too, then push him backward until he bumps into the bed, sitting down abruptly.

I kneel on the floor and pull off his shoes and socks, then frantically yank off my own boots and socks as well. He sits on the bed watching me, leaning on his hands, a glazed look in his eyes, his lips swollen from our kisses.

He's so beautiful, and I want him. Now. I kneel between his legs, planting kisses on his pecs as I rub my hands up and down his arms. His eyes close and his head falls back as he sighs deeply, his sighs gradually turning into moans as I kiss his nipples and then push him so that he's lying flat on the bed, giving me access to his belt and the zipper of his pants.

I keep thinking that he's going to come to his senses any minute now and make me stop, but he doesn't. He lets me unzip his pants, lets me rub his cock through the cotton of his briefs, then lets me put my mouth over it and breathe on it through the fabric. He moans as I signal to him to lift his hips so that I can pull down his pants and briefs, at least enough to give me greater access.

I can't stop touching him, kissing his cock, hefting his balls in my hand, every move that I make met with his whimpers and moans. By the time I take the head of his cock into my mouth, I'm moaning too. I can't get enough of him, tasting his pre-cum, taking more and more of him into my mouth.

I love how Edward can't seem to get enough either. His hips rise off the bed, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth until he can't go any further.

My own cock suffers in silence until I finally unzip my jeans and start stroking myself while I continue sucking him. When I look up at him, his mouth is open and the sweetest sounds continue to come out of it, but his eyes are closed and I can see the wet trail of tears on his face.

Before I can ask him what's wrong, there are three sharp raps on the door to the suite. I freeze, feeling Edward's cock throbbing with need.

"Bloody hell," he groans, and his hands caress my hair for a moment before he gently lifts me away from his beautiful cock. He touches my face tenderly, his own showing regret as he climbs off the bed and pulls up his slacks. I want nothing more than the pleasure of taking them off again. He looks around for his shirt and finally finds it on floor. I watch him walk out into the sitting room as he buttons his shirt – mismatching the buttons to the wrong buttonholes, I notice – feeling as though I'm back in the gingerbread house, watching him leave all over again.

Dejectedly, I get up off the floor and arrange my clothing as I listen to the voices coming from the sitting room. My erection has greatly diminished, but I fear that blue balls are here to stay.

"I'm very sorry, Edward," I hear a woman say apologetically. "She had a bad dream. Then she woke up crying and she's been inconsolable ever since. She's been asking for you."

She is interrupted by Isa's tearful "Daddy?" and I hear the low, soothing rumble of Edward's voice as he comforts her.

"Thank you, Angela," he says. "Could you bring us some cocoa and cookies please? For three?"

I hear her murmur of assent and then the door is closed. I wonder what I should do now. Who is the third cup of cocoa for – Angela or me? Does Angela know? Does Edward?

"Now, what's all this about a bad dream?" His voice sounds like he's walking toward the bedroom. I move quickly to sit in one of the two overstuffed chairs near the windows of a small alcove next to the fireplace, picking up the rest of our scattered clothing as I go.

"I was at Mama's and Uncle Jacob's house, Daddy," she says between the hiccups and deep sighs of someone who has been crying for quite a while. "Carlie and Leah ran into the forest and I tried to follow them, but I got lost. I called for you and Papa but nobody came to find me. And there was a big wolf, Daddy." She begins to cry again.

"Aw, sweetie, were you dreaming about Wolf Brother again? Remember when Papa told you he was a friendly wolf that helps people?" He comes through the doorway carrying her, then sits down in the chair next to mine. "Now dry your tears, Isa, and look who's here to see you," he says softly.

"Papa?" she says as she turns around to look. She sits shyly on her father's lap, her head tucked under his chin, still clinging to him.

"No, sweetheart, it's not your papa," he says sadly.

"Oh! It's Santa!"

I thought we had worked all that out at the mall. But I guess as much as Miss Know-It-All thinks she understands about Santa, she still wants to believe.

"Hello, Isabella," I say.

"Where's Papa?" she asks drowsily as the nightmare loosens its hold on her and she begins to drift back to sleep.

I think I know the answer to that question already. He's like the Matrix: He's everywhere, all around us, even in this room. He's there when I kiss his boyfriend, he's there when I hold his hand... He didn't really die, because he's just as present in this room as I am.

Edward stands up and carries Isa through a door that I hadn't noticed earlier. For a very good reason, of course. I follow, curious to see where he's going with her.

It's a small bedroom with two twin beds, a low dresser between them, and a wall-mounted flat-screen TV. He tucks Isa into one of the beds and gives her a kiss. He starts to get up, but she rouses again.

"Where's Sonic?" she asks. Sonic? Is this yet another member of Edward's entourage?

"I don't know, Isa," he replies. "Jasper, would you bring me my phone please?" he asks apologetically.

"Sure, no problem." I'm not sure where it ended up in our mad rush to the bed but I finally find it on the bedroom floor. I bring it to Edward and he calls Angela, asking her to cancel the cocoa and fetch Sonic instead.

I can't hear what she says in reply, but Edward says, "Oh. Well, bring it along then," and ends the call, turning back to his daughter. "Angela's bringing Sonic. She'll be here in a few minutes."

"Thank you, Daddy," she murmurs.

"You're welcome, sweetheart." He looks up at me and I see in his eyes the love he has for his daughter. I don't know whether I could ever be that unselfish. I probably wouldn't have even answered the door in the first place.

"Thank you Jasper," he says softly.

"For what?"

"For understanding. I know this isn't exactly the way you saw this evening ending." That smoldering look is back in his eyes. No longer the love for his daughter, but something else, something dark and hungry. It's gone in an instant, and an apologetic smile takes its place.

"Is it ending? Does it have to end?" I ask.

That's it? If that's the price you have to pay for being a parent, then count me out. I'm angry now and it has nothing to do with not getting off – well, not much anyway. I'm angry because I have the feeling that Edward is relieved, that this fortuitous interruption is an excuse that pulls him back from the brink of what he thinks of as betrayal and allows him to preserve a semblance of loyalty to his deceased partner.

Deceased – as in dead and gone. And now it's my turn to be gone.

I walk out of Isa's bedroom to find the rest of my clothes. Someone – Angela, I guess – knocks again and I open the door for her. She comes into the sitting room carrying a small silver tray with a pot of hot chocolate, a plate of cookies, and three porcelain cups and saucers. The cups contain fluffy white miniature marshmallows. A stuffed animal is tucked under her arm. She sets the tray down on the small table in the alcove of Edward's bedroom and looks around for him.

He comes out of Isa's room and she hands him the stuffed animal. "Sonic," he says, by way of introduction, and I see that it's Sonic the Hedgehog. "It was mine when I was little, and now it's Isa's."

I try to muster a less disgruntled reaction to this tenderhearted family tradition, but I manage only a rather acerbic "Awww," and leave it at that. If Edward notices my sarcasm, he chooses to ignore it as he takes the toy to his daughter. Angela hovers, having not been dismissed. Or maybe she's hoping for an invitation. I grab my socks and boots and pull them on.

"She's sleeping now," Edward says quietly when he finally emerges from the little bedroom. I pick up my jacket, preparing to put it on. Edward gives me a quizzical look.

Angela clears her throat, drawing his attention away from me for a moment.

"Will that be all, sir?" she inquires.

"Oh, yes, Angela. Thank you."

"Good night, sir." She turns to go and Edward escorts her back to the door of the suite.

"Good night, Angela." He returns to the bedroom just as his phone starts ringing. I can't help but roll my eyes. Doesn't anybody ever sleep around here?

Edward picks up the phone and I hear a lot of noncommittal comments at his end, things like "Oh, I see," and "Well, that's unexpected," until he finally ends the call. He puts the phone down on the desk and turns to me with a strange look in his eyes. "That was Felix. O'Hare Airport is closed. For at least twenty-four hours."

"Felix?" I ask. "Isn't he upstairs? Why didn't he just come down and tell you this?"

Edward looks down for a moment and then looks back up shyly. "He didn't want to disturb me."

I can't contain the bubble of laughter that spills out. "Why not?" I ask. "No one else seems to have a problem with it."

Edward's crooked smile turns into a laugh, but it doesn't last long. "Shh," he whispers. "I don't want to wake up Isa."

"Heaven forbid," I say, rolling my eyes again as I walk toward him. "Does that mean we can pick up where we left off when we were so rudely interrupted? As long as we don't make any noise?" I look intently into Edward's eyes, watched them grow wider as he finally understands my meaning. He starts backing away from me until his legs bump into the desk.

"Um... Jasper..." His voice comes out like a croak. "I don't think..." He doesn't finish the sentence. But his eyes have a wild look as I step into his personal space and reach up with both hands to hold his head steady as I lean forward to kiss him. "Jasper! I – "

I silence him with a kiss. It isn't hot and heavy like the ones at the restaurant, or ravenous like the hungry ones right here in this bedroom. It's just a quick reminder that there are more where those came from, if he wants them. I caress his cheeks and run one thumb across his lower lip and then step back.

He follows me.

I didn't expect that. Nor do I expect him to do what he does next.

He wraps his arms around me and kisses me again. Hard. With tongue. Of course, I have no problem obliging him by returning the favor until we both hear a sound come out of the smaller bedroom. It snaps us right out of whatever spell we've been caught up in, and we both step back. Edward practically runs to see if she is awake. I wonder if that's difficult to do, given the boner he's sporting.

This time I don't follow him. He comes back out a minute later. "She's sound asleep," he reports. "I guess she was dreaming or something."

I feel like I am dreaming too. This night has gone just about as well as a guy like me could hope for with someone like Edward Cullen, and I think it's time to leave.

"Where are you going?" he asks, a look of incredulity on his face as I zip up my jacket.

"Home," I reply.

"You can't be serious about going out in this weather. There must be a foot of snow on the ground by now."

"At least," I agree.

"But why are you leaving?"

"Edward, you have been a most congenial host and I'd hate to think I've overstayed my welcome..."

"Wait, Jasper." He sounds a little frantic. "Listen, the airport is closed. No flights in or out for at least twenty-four hours. We're stuck here until at least Christmas Day. I don't know what to do," he confesses. "All of the arrangements were made for us to spend Christmas in London with my parents." He looks at me pleadingly. I'm not sure what he's pleading for, but it's a pleasant surprise to discover that he doesn't look like he's any more ready for me to be out of his sight than I am to lose sight of him.

I walk into the sitting room and sink down onto the sofa. In the bedroom it's just a little too tempting to do something other than talk. "What are you gonna do?" I ask him.

"I don't know," he says, sitting down on the sofa across from me. "Nothing like this has ever happened to us before."

"You've never been snowed in before?" I find that hard to believe.

"No, I mean we've never had a delay like this before a holiday and – " He stops abruptly, remembering. "Except for last year, of course, when everything went to hell and hasn't come back yet." He puts his head in his hands.

I sit quietly for a moment, watching Edward as he struggles to master the emotions that sweep over him. It's as if all those feelings he's closed off since his outburst in the restroom at Katerina's have managed to escape again, like little devils with their pitchforks, stabbing him everywhere, especially in his heart.

I stand up and walk quietly around the large coffee table that separates the two sofas, then sit down next to him, wrapping one arm around him and bending close to his ear. "Edward," I say in a low voice. "It's okay to feel this stuff. Seems to me like you'd have to be a machine, or a robot or something, not to be feeling all this, especially tonight."

He doesn't say anything, but I like the way he leans against me.

"I have an idea," I tell him. "Come spend Christmas Eve with my mom and me."

"What?" He looks at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have.

"Or better yet, let us bring Christmas Eve to you, right here."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well," I say slowly, making this up as I go along. "My mom and I will be hanging out over at her place. And you will be hanging out here with Isa and Angela and Felix, right?"

"And his brother Demetri, yes. And?"

"My mom always makes a fifteen-pound turkey for Christmas, even though it's just the two of us. If I can borrow Felix and the Escalade, we'll just move everything over here and give you a good old-fashioned Christmas Eve, Chicago style."

"But Jasper," he splutters. "We couldn't possibly put you out like this."

"You're not putting us out. Let me tell you something about my mother. She has the biggest heart of anyone I know. At Thanksgiving, in addition to the two of us, there was James and Riley and their girlfriends, Riley's mom, three women from work, and our neighbor, Mrs. Cope, from down the hall. So in case you're wondering if she can cook for a large group, I just want to let you know that she would be more than delighted."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. You can stay and hang out with Isa and I'll take Angela with me. She and Felix can go shopping while I help my mother pack everything up. They can pick up a few little presents for Isa to tide her over until you get to London."

"Jasper, you're a genius!" Edward gives me a hug. Of course I can't help but hug him back, and not surprisingly, we are soon kissing again.

But not for long. After a few more minutes of learning Edward's kisses, I come to my senses long enough to remember that I still haven't called my mom. I grab my phone, ready to pull up my mom's number when I discover that the battery has died. No wonder Alice couldn't reach me earlier this evening.

Edward grabs my wrist. "Jasper!" he exclaims. "It's two in the morning! Isn't she asleep yet?"

"Nope," I grin. "It's Christmas Eve Eve. She's probably baking ten kinds of bread or five kinds of cookies. Or making her famous French onion soup. It's a Christmas Eve tradition at our house." I pause. "Um, Edward? Can I borrow your phone?"

Edward shakes his head in wonderment as he passes his phone to me. I suspect that he has no idea how much work goes into making those sugarplum fairies dance in his daughter's Christmas dreams. Maybe he should be the one to go help my mom in the morning, to see what it really takes to put together the kind of magical Christmas that she has always created for me.

"Mom?"

"Jasper! Are you all right?"

As laid back as my mom is, I forget sometimes that she's still a mother, wondering if her wayward son is calling from jail. Or in a hospital on the verge of death.

"I'm fine, Mom. What are you up to? " I can hardly contain my excitement.

"Jasper Lee Whitlock! Is that why you called me in the middle of the night?" she chastises me. "To give me a heart attack when the phone rings, and then ask me what I'm up to?"

"Sorry, Mom." I am duly chastened. "I have a very important favor to ask of you."

"What is it, dear?"

"I'm over on North Halsted at a guest house with a new friend, and his plane has been grounded and he's supposed to be in London tomorrow with his daughter and they can't leave and I was wondering if you would mind if they joined us for dinner," I run out of breath. "Oh, and the nanny and the driver and the driver's brother too." I add.

"A daughter? And a nanny and a driver? Goodness gracious, Jasper, are you hanging out with royalty or something?"

Leave it to my mother to go directly to the heart of the matter.

"No, Mom. He's a musician. A pianist. His name is Edward Cullen and – "

"Edward Cullen! That boy who played in Beijing? You're with him right now?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Oh my goodness! And you think our little Christmas dinner is good enough for the likes of him? Somebody who has a nanny and a driver?"

"Mom, stop." I can hear the note of panic in her voice. "You cooked for a dozen people at Thanksgiving. There's only five of them, plus us."

"Oh Jasper, don't be silly. Of course I can cook a dinner for seven people. You know that. I just wonder if it will be fancy enough for them."

"It will be wonderful," I reassure her. "Listen, here's what I have in mind. Once the streets get cleared a bit – "

"What's wrong with the streets?" she asks.

"Mom, have you looked outside during the past six hours? We're in the middle of a blizzard!"

"Oh! That's right. The Weather Channel said something about that yesterday."

"You haven't been watching the Weather Channel today? You usually watch it every day." I know we have gone wildly off the rails in terms of laying out a plan for the morning, but that's what usually happens when I talk with my mother.

"Not today. I've been playing all of my Christmas CDs and DVDs all day long while I baked."

"Okay, so this is what we're gonna do. We'll give the snowplows a few hours to get things cleared away, and then I'll come over with Edward's driver to pick everything up and bring it back here. You should see the kitchen, Mom. You're gonna love it."

"I don't know, Jasper." She sounds worried. "Why can't they just come here?"

"Wait 'til you see this place, Mom. It's perfect for one of your famous holiday meals. Could you make a list of anything you'll need here? We'll do the shopping before we pick you up. Then we'll come back here and you can finish cooking everything. It'll be great."

I can see Edward from the corner of my eye. He has a huge smile on his face, looking just as excited about Christmas as the kids waiting in line to see Santa at the gingerbread house. I can't help grinning at him, and at myself. When I was slinking through the shopping center on my way to my last day at work in the gingerbread house, never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that I would be planning a Christmas Eve dinner for Edward Cullen, his daughter, and his entourage less than twenty-four hours later.

I'm not sure if this is some crazy Christmas miracle – or just plain crazy.

* * *

**A/N:** The last of the Christmas chapters will be posted tomorrow. After that, the story will move forward in real time over the next few months.

You can find a link to the Villa D'Citta on my profile page. I have taken some liberties with the layout (Edward's Grand Tuscan suite doesn't really have a sitting room), but otherwise, it is a perfect setting for Edward's home away from home.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **TruceOver makes it all pretty. You, dear readers, make it all worthwhile.

* * *

**December 24**

_I can feel snowflakes on my face __– _ little soft, white flakes falling from the sky. I'm standing in the snow, looking up, with my arms wide open like that guy in my favorite movie, The Shawshank Redemption_. _

_I realize that I'm shivering and wrap my arms around myself, my tongue out now, trying to catch snowflakes as they fall. But none fall on my tongue. I can only feel them on my cheeks and forehead. _

_And then I hear them giggle. _

_Giggling snowflakes? _

I come awake suddenly, finding myself sprawled on somebody's sofa, a soft blanket covering my body, my head throbbing a little from all the ouzo I drank at Katerina's last night.

I don't have time to ask myself whose sofa I've been sleeping on, because my field of vision is filled with the face of a little girl looking inquisitively into my eyes as she moves something red and white away from my face.

Not giggling snowflakes after all – just a giggling girl with a Santa hat. That makes a whole lot more sense.

After the initial jolt into wakefulness, I realize that the snowflakes in my dream had, in fact, been the feathery touches of the white pom-pom at the tip of the Santa hat I stole yesterday. Apparently Isa found it and decided to experiment with it. I wonder how her father fits into this equation.

"Good morning, Isa," I say in a scratchy voice. I clear my throat and try again. "Where's your daddy?"

"Shh," she says with a finger to her lips. "My daddy is sleeping. Don't wake him up!"

"I was sleeping too," I whisper. "Why did you wake _me_ up?"

"Because that's not the rule."

"What rule?" I ask, still whispering.

"The rule is: Don't wake up Daddy or Papa unless the door is open."

Completely baffled, I look at the open door into the bedroom. "But the door is open."

"_My_ door wasn't open, silly."

"Oh." That clears everything up.

I wonder what to do next. Aside from the fact that I need to use the bathroom, I wonder if Edward will mind that his daughter is out here alone with a stranger. Should I wake him up? I decide to assess the situation further.

"Do you know about stranger danger, Isa?"

"Of course I do, silly. Don't talk to strangers. Run to Daddy or Papa if strangers talk to me. Or Angela or Mama or Uncle Jacob or Felix or Granny or – "

"That's good, Isa," I say, interrupting her. "You know exactly what to do. But aren't I a stranger? Should you be talking to me right now?"

"You're not a stranger; you're Santa. And strangers don't sleep on the sofa, silly."

"Oh," I say again. I have to admire her logic, although I'm still concerned about what Edward's reaction is going to be. "Isa, I need to get up for a minute. Shouldn't we wake up your daddy now?"

"Is it ten o'clock yet?"

I have no idea what time it is. I fumble around for my phone to check the time, but the battery is still dead. Then I catch sight of an ornate clock on the fireplace mantel and squint to read the time.

"It's eight-thirty, Isa." I stifle a groan. No wonder my head is spinning. I can't remember the last time I was awake before noon. Now I understand why parents at the gingerbread house usually look so haggard. They never get any sleep. "What happens at ten o'clock?"

"That's when it's okay to wake up Daddy and Papa."

My heart clenches every time she mentions Seth. Yesterday, she seemed to understand that he's gone, but now she includes both of her fathers in every other sentence. "I'll be right back," I tell her, then go quietly through the bedroom and into Edward's bathroom.

I pause for a moment on my way back out, taking in the sight of the beautiful man in the bed. Edward is sleeping on his left side, near the edge of the bed, curled up into almost a fetal position, the sheets and blankets in a tangle around his body.

The other side of the bed is empty except for his laptop and piles of sheet music. Even so, I can still see the ghost of Seth, spooning into Edward's back, wrapping his arms around him and leaning in to sprinkle kisses across his shoulders and up his neck.

Well, that's what I'd be doing if I were the one sleeping with Edward.

But there's no room for me. The ghostly presence of Seth still fills Edward's bed, and I wonder if Seth is in his dreams too. I sigh and turn away, leaving Edward to the oblivion of sleep for a while longer.

I carefully shut the bedroom door as I go back into the sitting room, half-expecting Isa to be gone, in search of the nanny perhaps, and some breakfast. But she's still there, nibbling on one of the cookies left over from last night when she unexpectedly interrupted us.

I try not to think too much about how frustrated I was by that interruption. It isn't Isa's fault that she has nightmares and wants to be with her father. My mother certainly sat through her share of them with me after my father left us when I was about Isa's age.

I sigh again and go back to the sofa. "Are you allowed to have cookies for breakfast?" I ask.

She giggles. "Nope. Angela always fixes me a moo-tritious breakfast."

I can't help laughing. "What is a moo-tritious breakfast, exactly?"

She looks puzzled for a moment as she ponders how to explain it. "Well, you have to drink milk every day, so when you drink milk with your breakfast, or put milk in your cereal, that's a moo-tritious breakfast."

"I see," I say with a grin. "So, Isa, are you hungry? Should we go rustle up some breakfast, or what?"

She offers me a cookie before taking another one for herself. "No. I'm not hungry. Are you? You can have some fruit if you want," she says, pointing to an enormous basket sitting on the table by the door of the suite, wrapped festively in red cellophane and ribbons.

"Well, I guess we won't starve then, will we? Do you want to watch cartoons or something?" Without an instruction manual – or a stinky red Santa suit – I'm at a loss as to what to do with a six-year-old kid.

"I'm not allowed to watch cartoons," she sniffs with a slight tone of disdain.

"You're not? Why?"

"Granny says they're untooth."

"Untooth? What does that mean?" I decide that just talking to Isa is a lot more fun than watching cartoons, although I do wonder what there is to watch on Saturday mornings these days. I used to be a big fan of _Darkwing Duck_.

"It means that their teeth are all gone." She looks less certain about this definition than she had about 'moo-tritious,' perhaps sensing a flaw in her logic, but unable to figure out what it is.

"And that's why you shouldn't watch cartoons?" I can't help asking with a smile.

"Well, that's what Granny says." She now has a stubborn look on her face, as if to say 'that's my story and I'm sticking to it.'

"Okay, well, we don't want to disobey Granny now, do we?" I'm tempted to turn on the TV anyway, just to see what she'll do, but I don't want to wake up Edward. "So where does your granny live?"

"My granny Esme and grampy Carlisle live in London. Most of the time."

"Most of the time? Where do they live the rest of the time?"

"Oh, they like to fly around a lot. Like we do."

"Do you like to fly, Isa?" I ask.

"Most of the time," she repeats. "But sometimes my ears hurt, and I cry. Papa used to give me bubble gum when that happened, even though I'm not allowed to chew gum."

There's a funny look on her face, and I'm worried that she might be close to tears.

But she goes on. "I asked my daddy for some once, and he started crying too." She looks down. "So I don't ask him anymore."

It's quiet in the room, except for the soft ticking of the mantelpiece clock.

After a moment, she looks up again, an odd little smile on her face. "But now Angela or Bree will ask me if I want some. Sometimes even Rosalie has some in her bag."

"Who's Bree?" I've already met Angela, the nanny who looked scared half to death when we met last night.

"Bree is my tutor."

"And Rosalie?"

"Um..." She pauses. "She's the phone-call lady. She's very bossy." Isa leans toward me conspiratorially. "Daddy says she's scary sometimes," she whispers.

"Thanks for the warning. I'll be sure to stay out of her way." I struggle to think of what to say next until she comes to my rescue.

"Do you want to play a game?"

"Sure," I reply. "What game?"

Isa jumps up off the ottoman where she's been sitting and runs over to the fireplace, standing on tiptoes and stretching out her arm to reach for a small leather case sitting on the mantel next to the clock. I start to stand up, ready to go over and help her, when she manages to wrap her fingers around it and pulls it into her hands.

She walks back to me with a triumphant look on her face. I wonder briefly what made her feel so proud of herself, but before I can figure out how to ask her, she sets the case down on the coffee table and opens it.

Inside is a tiny chess board and a set of unusual black and white chess pieces. She unfolds the board and starts taking out the pieces, lining them up on both side of the board.

I pick up the piece she has placed in the king's position. With its long beard and unusual pointed hat, the carved face looks familiar.

"Who's this?" I ask, turning the piece so that Isa can see it.

"Oh, that's Dumbledore," she replies, then proceeds to name all of the pieces. "Professor McGonagall is the queen, Snape is one of the bishops and Sirius is the other. Here's Harry," she says, touching one of the knights, then pointing to the other one. "And Ron. Hermione and Ginny are the rooks."

"And the pawns?"

"Muggles." She giggles, then looks at me with a very serious expression on her face. "You do know how to play chess, don't you?"

"It's been a while, but I think I can still remember. You know how to play?"

"Of course, silly." She giggles again.

"Did your daddy teach you?"

"No..." She looks down at the chessboard. "Daddy was teaching Papa how to play and I watched them." Her eyes fill with tears, and I frantically try to think of what to do.

She looks up at me then. "He won't even play anymore. He found the chess set in his bag and threw it on the floor. He was so mad that he slammed the door. Angela picked it up. She was scared too."

I begin to wonder if this is such a good idea after all. I think I might be able to stand it if Edward gets upset about cartoons, but this? This seems far more risky. I want to make his Christmas merry, not push him toward a major meltdown.

Isa picks up one pawn from each side of the board and puts her hands behind her back, mixing them up. She holds out her closed fists and I tap the left one. She opens it, revealing the black piece. I take it and set it on the board.

"Okay, Isa. Do your thing." I wonder if I'm supposed to let her win. Will she cry again if I don't?

It isn't long before I'm laughing as Isa triumphantly captures my queen, well on her way to victory. I haven't played in years, and it shows.

I'm laughing so hard that I almost don't notice Edward, still looking sleep-rumpled, leaning against the bedroom door, watching us. He's eerily still, frozen in place. He smiles as soon as he realizes he's been spotted, but not before I witness a myriad of emotions flashing across his face. Confusion. Irritation. Astonishment. Grief.

Just in time, he wipes a single tear from his face and clears his throat.

"Daddy!" Isa cries, jumping up and rushing into his outstretched arms. He picks her up and hugs her fiercely until she squeals. Then he tickles her under her chin and gives her a kiss on the cheek before setting her down again.

She grabs his hand and drags him over to where I now stand, nervously wondering how he is going to react to all this.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Jasper," Edward replies, his voice cracking a little. He clears his throat again. "I hope you slept well. How long have you been up?"

I look at the clock on the mantel. "Oh, about an hour, I guess."

"I'm so sorry if she woke you up. She should have known better." He looks at his daughter with a frown.

"But Daddy – " she begins.

"Oh, no problem," I interrupt with a grin. "I understand the rules. And anyway, I never got a wake-up call from a midget before."

She looks at me with astonishment. "I'm not a midget," she says indignantly. "I'm a girl."

"Yes, you are," Edward says. "A very naughty girl for waking Jasper. Now run along and find Angela and have some breakfast."

She pulls at his hand. "You come too, Daddy."

"In a minute, sweetheart." He kisses her again and walks with her to the door of the suite.

He closes the door behind her and leans against it. "I'm so sorry, Jasper," he apologizes again. "You should have told her to wake me up."

"Oh no," I say, laughing. "I'm not gonna be the one to break the rule."

"What rule?" Edward looks perplexed.

"Isa told me that there's a rule against waking you up before ten a.m." I explain without thinking.

"Oh." I feel the thud of Edward's response, as if a boulder has been dropped on the conversation, crushing it. Edward's face reflects the pain that he must be feeling as he recalls why the rule had been made in the first place.

A moment later, he wrenches control of his grief once again, stuffing it back into the dark corner where it has taken up permanent residence, ready to pounce at the most inopportune times.

"So," he says, with only a slight quaver in his voice, "I see that you were teaching Isa how to play chess." He gestures toward the board where the pile of black pieces on Isa's side of the table attests to her impending victory.

"Not me," I reply, startled by the realization that Edward is unaware of his daughter's ability. I'm reluctant to explain, to cause any more pain. "Edward, um..." I take a deep breath before going on. "She told me she learned how to play when she watched you teach Seth."

Edward's haggard expression tells me more than I want to know.

"I'm so sorry, Edward. I had no idea when she brought out the chess set..."

"Where did she get it?" he whispers.

"It was on the mantel. She told me Angela had put it up there."

"Oh." Another thud. I can tell that Edward must be recalling the storm of emotion that led to its placement there. "Listen, Edward, I hope you don't mind that we were playing..."

"Not at all." A polite, formal mask slides smoothly across his features. "Will you excuse me for a moment? I need to make a telephone call."

Without waiting for a reply, Edward turns abruptly and goes back into the bedroom, closing the door.

With a sigh, I sit down heavily on the sofa and fish around for my boots, then pull them on. I stand and fold the blanket, setting it on the arm of the sofa, then look around to see what else I can do while I'm waiting for Edward.

I don't have to wait long. Less than five minutes later, Edward reemerges from the bedroom. His eyes are red, but his expression is composed.

"I just called my parents," he explains. "They're disappointed that we have to postpone our Christmas celebration, but they were happy to hear that we have such a nice alternative here."

He walks over to where I'm standing in front of the fireplace, then reaches up with both hands to caress my face. "I must apologize for being such a rude host," he says softly. "Shall we begin again? Good morning, Jasper." In just a few seconds, his touch and his intense green-eyed gaze push me from feeling awkward, to concerned, to a pile of putty in his beautiful hands.

"Good morning, Edward," I reply, putting my hands on his hips.

"May I?" he asks, leaning in.

"By all means," I say with a grin before closing the distance between us and placing the gentlest of kisses on Edward's lips.

We both sigh as the kiss ends. I want to run my fingers through Edward's unruly hair, wrap my arms around his lean body and pull him close, then kiss his warm lips until he's putty in _my_ hands. I want to pull Edward through the doorway into the bedroom, lock the door and throw away the key for a day or two until he learns that there's more to life than just grieving and reminders of loss.

However, I can feel shudders coursing through Edward's body, a war of emotions raging beneath the surface. I'm not going to win this particular battle, not when I have just been the cause, however unintentionally, of yet another tidal wave of grief.

I give Edward's lips one more soft peck, then step away. "My mom is expecting us before noon. Do you think I could get something to eat before I go?" With a laugh, I gesture at the coffee table, where the empty plate sits on the tray. "I must admit, cookies are a great way to start the day, but I could use something a little more substantial at this point. And coffee, too, if you've got it."

Edward looks at me gratefully, clearly relieved to put some distance between us again. "C'mon," he says, grabbing my hand. "Angela makes the best omelet in North America."

I grin and follow him down the hall, basking in the warmth of Edward's hand, the joy in his laughter when he hears my stomach growling.

This is beginning to feel like the best Christmas Eve of my entire life.

* * *

The mid-morning sky is a clear, sparkling blue. Although the sun is shining, the temperature is well below freezing. Normally the trip from North Halsted Street to my mother's apartment would take about fifteen minutes. Today, due to the erratic efforts of the snowplows, it takes us well over an hour. Some of the major streets are plowed, but most of the smaller ones aren't. And my mom lives on one of the smallest.

Fortunately, the Escalade is up for the challenge, and it is an exhilarating adventure as we make our way through the city. Surprisingly, there's not as much traffic as usual for a Saturday, even though it's Christmas Eve. Nonetheless, there are still plenty of bottlenecks, some of which necessitate making major detours. Abandoned cars are hidden under mounds of snow, and the wind has blown in from Lake Michigan, leaving snow drifting across roads near the lake, making them almost impassable.

Felix and Demetri sit in the front seat, looking like two peas in a pod. Two rather lopsided peas. Felix is the taller and older of the two, gruff and burly, with a tendency to speak in monosyllabic bursts. His younger brother Demetri is more of a live wire, twisting around in his seat, fascinated by everything going on outside the vehicle. He points out people navigating the streets on their cross-country skis, the occasional snowmobile, snowball fights, and a gigantic snowman at the corner of North Clark Street. No one can quite figure out how it has been constructed.

In between his observations about skis and snowmen, Demetri tells me a little about how he and Felix came to be working for Edward. It turns out that Edward's family has property on Lake Como, north of Milan, Italy. Having grown up on the Cullens' estate there, where their father is the caretaker, it was only natural for the brothers to go to work for the Cullen family when they grew up.

Yeah, it's only natural. I sigh to myself, reminded yet again of the chasm of wealth and class that separates Edward and me.

I sit alone in the back seat. Edward asked Angela to stay at the guest house to take care of Isa while he attends to a few business matters. I am very disappointed that he didn't come along for the ride. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that he feels the need to keep some distance between us, although I can't imagine what kind of business he has to deal with, since he was supposed to be in the air, en route to London right now. Still, it does feels odd to be away from him after all the intensity of the past few hours together.

We drop Demetri off at the Whole Foods Market in Boystown with a list of items designed to make a merry Christmas for Isa in the absence of the elaborate celebration planned by Edward's family. Demetri is charged with finding a few decorations, candy canes and other Christmas treats, and maybe a few gifts to put under the lavishly decorated tree at the guest house.

Thank god for that tree. I wouldn't even want to think about finding a Christmas tree today, let alone all the lights and ornaments it would need. My mother has a small potted Norfolk Island pine tree that she decorates every year, but I don't have anything at my place except a string of red chili-pepper lights strung up in my bedroom, a souvenir of a trip to Texas a few years ago to visit my mother's relatives.

I have also asked Demetri to look for a book of Christmas carols. I can envision us now, sitting in front of a roaring fire, opening presents, drinking hot cocoa, and singing carols, accompanied on the guest house's grand piano by Edward if he's willing, although I usually do the honors on the small piano at my mom's place.

By the time we get to my mother's apartment, she has already called me three times, wondering if we have gotten lost or fallen into a snowdrift. I assure her that we are making steady progress toward her place, but it's clear that she's excited, and impatient to get the party started.

When we climb up to her third-floor apartment, Felix is taken aback by her exuberant welcome. She gives him a huge hug, and then starts piling boxes and bags into his arms. He staggers back down the stairs to load up the car while I give my mom a kiss and await my own load of pans and packages.

But first I have to deal with her version of the Inquisition. "So, Jasper, how on earth did you meet Edward Cullen, of all people?"

"He brought his daughter to the gingerbread house at the mall yesterday, and I ran into him later." Literally. "He kind of invited himself along to Katerina's last night and I ended up going back with him to the guest house where he's staying."

"And?"

"And along came the blizzard and closed down O'Hare, so they were stuck here instead of flying back to London to be with his family for Christmas."

"And?"

I roll my eyes. My mother has always had a very open mind, hardly batting an eyelash when I came out to her when I was sixteen, and she has always shared a bit more of her own romantic misadventures than I really care to know. But I love her.

"And nothing. His daughter had a nightmare, and he took care of her while I slept on the sofa. End of story." I certainly hope not. "C'mon, Mom, let's get out of here."

Felix comes back in and is rewarded with another pile of things to carry down to the car. I end up with the roasting pan containing the turkey, while my mother cradles the crock pot of onion soup in her arms like a newborn baby.

We finally manage to get everything packed into the back of the Escalade and my mother climbs into the front seat with Felix. He started to protest, but she holds up a hand to stop him.

"Young man, I get carsick if I have to sit in the back seat, so you'll just have to put up with me here," she says as she buckles herself in.

Fortunately, Felix's phone rings, distracting him for the moment as Demetri reports on his progress with the shopping. He has found everything on the list and is waiting for us at the Halstead Street entrance where we dropped him off.

We find him there a few minutes later, laden with bags and boxes. Felix climbs out to make room for everything in the back and Demetri gets into the backseat with me.

I introduce him to my mother. They immediately strike up a lively conversation about soup, and I hear all about his _nonna_'s famous minestrone soup back in Italy. I can't help but grin. As always, my mother is getting along famously with everyone, so I try not to worry too much about what it will be like for her to meet Edward.

For me, however, the trip back to the guest house seems to take forever. Maybe it's only because I can't wait to see Edward again, and spend a few more hours with him. I don't even want to think about what will happen when he leaves tomorrow. I already feel a surprising emptiness in my heart, in the place where he has taken up residence after such a short time.

This is not going to end well. I don't see how it can.

I know Edward isn't looking for a relationship, nor does it seem like he's ready to be in one. However much I might want something more with him, I just can't see it happening any time soon.

I sigh, then tell myself that if this is all I'm ever going to have with Edward, then I'll enjoy it to the fullest and give us both something good to remember when he's gone.

With that I sit up a little straighter and put a shaky smile on my face. We're only a couple of blocks away from the guest house.

Felix's phone rings again, and he responds with his usual monosyllables before hanging up. He then says something rapidly in Italian that causes Demetri's eyes to widen.

"Felix, what's going on?" I ask. "Demetri? Is everything okay?"

"We'll be there in a minute," Demetri says, smiling and patting my hand companionably.

We pull into the garage and I help my mother climb down out of the vehicle. She has held onto the soup throughout the trip and hasn't spilled a drop. I go around to the back and pull out the roaster pan containing the turkey.

Felix and Demetri have disappeared into the guest house without unloading anything from the car. I finally understand what is going on as soon as we walk in the door.

Suitcases are lined up in neat rows in the hallway just inside the door. A matched set of Louis Vuitton sits alongside a surprising amount of Hello Kitty luggage. Several plain black suitcases on wheels are parked nearby.

My mother starts looking around for the kitchen.

"Wait here a minute, Mom," I say quietly. She sets the crock pot down on the antique hall table and looks at me with a question in her eyes.

We don't have to wait long to get the answer. Edward comes downstairs with some carry-on luggage and stops short when he sees me. He sets the bags down and comes over to greet us. But he isn't looking at me.

"Edward, this is my mother, Margaret Whitlock," I say. "Mom, this is Edward Cullen. What – ?"

My mother steps in front of me and grabs Edward's outstretched hand. "Pleased to meet you, Edward. Going on a trip?" she jokes awkwardly.

"Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid I am." He finally looks at me, an unreadable expression in his eyes. "Jasper, I'm sorry. My parents made arrangements for us to fly out of Midway Airport on the corporate jet of a friend of the family. We take off in a couple of hours." He turns to my mother. "I'm very sorry for all the inconvenience, Mrs. Whitlock. I had no idea..."

"Oh," I hear my mother say, crestfallen. I try not to focus on the disappointment in her eyes; it's already too much of a struggle to deal with my own.

"Why didn't you call me, Edward?" I ask, feeling anger bubble up to mask the disappointment that I feel.

"I'm sorry, Jasper. I don't have your number. And besides, your mobile isn't charged." I hear my mother speak up, rapidly calling out my number. Startled, Edward takes out his phone, asks her to repeat it, and punches it in, while I stand there, dumbfounded, still trying to figure out what happened.

"You called Felix, didn't you?" I say, unable to keep an accusatory note out of my voice. "Why didn't he say something? Why didn't he just turn around and take us home?"

"Because I wanted to see you, Jasper. I wanted to apologize and I wanted to say a proper good-bye." He takes a step toward me, but I back away from him.

"Well, you've said it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll get the rest of our stuff out of the Escalade and call a cab." I hate the petulant tone of my voice, but I feel helpless to change it.

"No, Jasper. Wait. You don't have to do that. Felix will be down in a minute and he'll drive you home."

"Edward, it took us over an hour to get there, and almost an hour to get back. There's not enough time to drop us off and get you over to Midway too. We'll be fine."

With that, I pick up the roaster pan and go back out into the garage to unload the rest of the things we'd picked up from my mother's apartment. I don't want to see the distressed look in his eyes, or listen to any more of his apologies. I hear my mother murmur something comforting to Edward before she joins me in the garage.

I pile up everything next to the Escalade and use Mom's phone to call a cab. They say it will probably take an hour to get through the snow-clogged streets. I grit my teeth as I watched Demetri and Felix silently load up the vehicle, adding their duffel bags to the other three sets of luggage.

I don't go back into the guest house, and Edward doesn't come out. What else is there to say? I feel bad for a moment about not saying good-bye to Isa, but I figure that it doesn't really matter anyway. She will probably forget about me soon enough. Kids are like that. I hope I can forget about Edward just as fast.

Fortunately, the cab comes before Edward and his entourage depart. I'm too angry, too confused, too pathetically sad to face him for another second. Yet as the taxi drives away from the guest house, I turn and look back, hoping to see Edward rushing outside, maybe waving his arms in the air to stop the cab. To say good-bye.

He doesn't. Perhaps he's already begun to forget.

My mother and I ride silently through the snow-covered streets of Chicago. It nearly breaks my heart to carry everything back up the three flights of stairs to her apartment.

Or maybe my heart is already broken.

So much for the best Christmas Eve of my life.

* * *

**A/N:** (hides behind computer screen) I hope you'll all keep hangin' on for the rest of the roller coaster ride. More next week!


	5. Chapter 5

_**The Times**_** (London): Cullen Shines as OAE Celebrates New Year.** _Pianist Edward Cullen performed flawlessly in his guest appearance with the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment at their annual New Year's Eve concert last night. The elegant Hall One at Kings Place was standing room only amid rumors of the reclusive virtuoso's recent... _[continued on page 4]

-ICL-

**January 1**

Someone is pounding nails into my skull. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Boom. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Boom...

Somehow I rise to a level of consciousness capable of grasping the fact that my phone is ringing. How is that possible? Any true friend of mine would, like me, be sound asleep at this ungodly hour of...

I fumble around, grab the phone, and open one eye just enough to see...

Seven a.m.?

The Spencer Davis Group ringtone means only one thing: Riley. He thought he was so damn funny, programming my mom's favorite song, _Gimme Some Lovin',_ into my phone after my brief encounter with Edward. He knows better than to call this early in the morning.

"What?" I grunt when I finally manage to silence the ringtone, bringing the phone to my ear.

"Jasper, you have to see something on YouTube. Immediately!" He is practically shouting.

"Riley, are you out of your fucking mind?" I growl. "What is so fucking important on YouTube that has you calling me so fucking early?" My head is still filled with cobwebs of sleep, not to mention the slightly nauseating residue of whatever it was that I drank last night after work, or rather, this morning. I didn't finish at Katerina's until nearly one a.m., then hung out at the bar there until last call at two, and finally came home alone – poor, sad loser that I am – to drink myself into oblivion. I probably deserve the hangover, but I don't think I deserve Riley shouting at me.

"Trust me, Jasper. You'll want to see this," he insists excitedly.

I roll out of bed with a groan, then squeal like a girl as my bare feet hit the cold floor. I slide my feet into my boots but don't bother lacing them up. I wrap the blanket around me and stumble over to the laptop on my desk, then make a quick trip to the bathroom while the system is powering up. After I'm done, I pick up the phone again, wondering if Riley is still there.

"Okay, you woke me up and made me turn on my computer. Now what?" I grumble. I can hear laughter in the background as Riley speaks to someone.

"Yeah, it just got posted last night... I have no idea where it came from... Yeah, it's pretty fucking cool..."

"Riley!" I shout into the phone.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm here. Are you at the YouTube home page yet?"

"Yes, Riley. What the fuck is going on?"

"Relax, Jasper. Search for the Dust Covers."

I let out an explosive sigh. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ri. Is this some kind of joke? You're not gonna make me watch our lame-ass videos this early in the morning, are you?"

I cringe at the thought of the three short videos we posted last year. Production values were slim to none, as was our budget. James's sister Victoria did all the filming for a school project. She got an A, but the quality wasn't exactly Oscar-worthy.

"Just shut up, Jasper, and do it." He huffs with impatience, which I mirror, wondering what the hell could be on YouTube that has him in such a tizzy so early in the morning.

When I see the first item, I don't understand it. It says "Chicago Dust Covers + Edward Cullen at Katerina's Part 1." What the fuck? I click on it and wait for it to load.

"Do you see it?" Riley's voice sounds far away.

"I just opened it. Give me a minute here, Ri."

"Okay. Call me back," he says, then hangs up. As I click on 'play,' I keep the phone held to my ear as if he's still talking to me.

I have a very bad feeling about this.

The camera work is shaky, kind of all over the place at first, but it's very clearly the three of us at Katerina's. Edward is right behind us, sitting with eyes closed, rocking from side to side on the bench like a lanky white version of Ray Charles as we play the first song. The camera lingers on him, on his scruff-covered jaw. He has a little half-smile on his face that looks at once blissful and totally gorgeous.

The camera pulls back and now you can see the three of us. James is huddled over his drums like he's planning to steal them and is trying to figure out where the getaway car is. He keeps looking over at Edward with an anxious expression on his face. Riley is all over the place, as always, and the camera has trouble keeping up with him as he sways and sidesteps across the tiny stage behind me.

I feel very uncomfortable when the camera stops panning and starts focusing on me as I play and sing. I think I look like an idiot, a pretentious fool who has no business holding a guitar, let alone playing one. My voice has a growly, rough edge to it that's hard to listen to, and I can't help cringing a little.

Watching this disasterpiece is so totally beyond what I thought I'd be doing this morning. Actually, I hadn't been expecting to do anything except sleep. Having stumbled in around three a.m., then polishing off whatever alcohol there was here, I hadn't planned on resurfacing again at all before the p.m. part of the day today. Or maybe tomorrow.

I'm completely sober now, sitting in stunned silence as the video shows us working through the first three songs we played that night at Katerina's. Edward seems pleased when I introduce him, although he looks shy when the applause increases upon hearing his name.

But that's nothing compared to how I feel when I click on Part 2. It's the encore, and it blows me completely out of the water.

Whoever was holding the camera has changed their position and it is very obvious that I am singing to Edward. I have a euphoric expression on my face as I sing. Even my dimples look happy. I lean toward Edward as though he is a magnet and I'm powerless to resist him. It's actually a relief when the song ends and the lights come up. It's hard enough to have to see myself performing, but seeing such vulnerability and desire is almost too intense to watch.

I realize that I'm holding my breath now, waiting to see what happens next – as if I don't already know – and hoping like hell somebody turned that damned camera off.

No such luck.

Edward's raspy voice is soft, but it's clearly audible when he says "This is for Seth" and starts playing. My heart aches when I hear it again. It is a tone poem to love and loss. The highs and lows of each passage are so powerful. I have never felt anything like that. Not sure I really want to. It seems to me that the more you depend on somebody, the worse it's gonna be when they leave you. As they inevitably will. My father's disappearing act taught me all about that shit long ago.

My mother taught me a few things too, of course. She is one of the strongest women I know. She sacrificed everything for me, making sure that I always had warm clothes, enough to eat, and a decent home. Not an easy job for a single parent.

I shake off the moody place I tend to slip into when I think about my so-called father and return my attention to the video.

I remember the moment when Edward offered his phone to be used as the recording device, and I am impressed by the fairly high quality of the picture and sound. But I don't spend long contemplating the technical specifications of this bootleg video because I am totally caught up again in the beauty of his face, the sorrow that fills his eyes, the mask of pain that covers his features, visible even in the shadowy darkness of the unlit stage.

The camera doesn't move from his face the entire time. Whoever was filming played around with the settings a little, zooming in and out several times, but finally settled on a medium shot of his head and shoulders framed by the raised lid of the piano. The emotion of his playing can still be heard, even through the less-than-professional quality of recording.

I think back over the time frame of our set and what came afterward. There was plenty of time for one of Kate's assistants to upload the session into her computer before Alice came to us with our coats outside the restroom, returning Edward's phone to him at that time.

It had to be Kate, or someone working for her. I start fretting a bit as I wonder how to break it to Edward. I haven't heard a word from him since leaving the guest house on Christmas Eve. Not that I expect to, but a guy can always hope.

I remember how angry I was about the abrupt cancellation of our Christmas Eve plans, and how foolish I felt afterward because I had managed to waste my last chance to be with Edward by sulking out in the garage. I hadn't wanted to hear his opinion on the matter; I just wanted to get out of there, away from the complications of ghosts and kids and traveling and fame. Any further conversation would have been pointless. I was just a brief blip on the far-flung adventures of Edward Cullen, something he managed to fit in for a few hours of downtime between holiday shopping and flying in private chartered jets halfway around the world.

After her initial disappointment, my mom took the cancellation in stride. She even tried to get me to see it from Edward's point of view. How maybe his family had bent over backward to make it easier for him to get home for the holiday. How the anniversary date of Seth's death might have clouded his good manners and/or good sense when it came to his decision making. How remaining in Chicago longer than expected might have created a cascade of other problems in his schedule.

She's right, of course. It could have been any of these, or something else entirely. Still doesn't make it hurt any less. Anyway, I guess I'll never know.

She didn't stop there. After that, she made sure I had little time to sit around feeling sorry for myself that day. We ended up taking most of the food she had prepared to a Christmas Eve potluck dinner at the community center in her neighborhood. While we were there, she 'volunteered' me to play the piano accompaniment during the carol singing. Normally, I'm not too shy about doing things like that, but after listening to Edward play at Katerina's, I felt like my skills were pretty dubious. As usual, my mother refused to take no for an answer, and I have to admit that I did enjoy myself, once I stopped seeing Edward's face and hearing his music in the back of my mind.

That little reprieve didn't last very long. Thoughts of Edward soon returned and now seem to be here to stay – the longing as well as the anger. I'm still disappointed about the way he blew us off, but I do realize that I'm not the one who's entitled to be upset about these videos. I suspect that Edward had no say in the decision to release them on YouTube. With all the ouzo we drank that night, he probably doesn't even remember that the session was recorded.

I watch his intense concentration as he plays the final bars of the piece and then covers his eyes with his hand. The roar of the crowd overwhelms the limited audio circuits of the phone and it all becomes just a lot of white noise.

I can't look away as Edward stumbles back over to our table and covers his face with his hands. My stomach twists when I see him turn to hide his tears. The video ends the moment my body blocks the view of him as I step up to the table to shield him from the onslaught of cameras and congratulations.

I can't imagine that he would have wanted anyone to see this unscheduled, unscripted, and unrehearsed performance. The few videos of him that are available online are brief, highly stylized and very well-produced clips to promote his latest recordings, all designed to enhance his mystique.

This is just too raw.

I move the cursor back a few minutes then put it on pause, reaching out to touch the screen, running my fingers along the sharp angle of his scruff-covered jaw, wishing I'd been able to smooth out the frown lines in his forehead when I had the chance.

It's an odd sort of life, I guess. That much I'd seen from my time with Edward. Coddled and protected on the one hand, but with huge demands for perfection on the other. As much as I'm attracted to him, the very thought of his life is exhausting, and makes me want to run away. But as I lean forward again, staring at the face of a man who is obviously lost, I instinctively want to protect him. I don't want anyone to see his grief, or exploit him in any way. He's already been a victim of more than his share of life's cruel circumstances.

I have to admit that I am completely torn by this video. Yes, it's a gross exploitation of Edward's talent, but I also can't deny that it's an unexpected windfall for the Dust Covers. We have no budget for publicity and we could never buy promotional services as fantastic as what has just been given to us by Kate, or whoever it was that uploaded this video.

However, it also feels like the genie has escaped from the magic lamp, and nothing – or nobody – is going to be able to persuade it to go back in. I feel helpless to do anything. I have no way of contacting Edward to tell him about this. Even if I could warn him, there's nothing else for me to do while the windstorm of publicity wreaks havoc on his life for a while – a few days at most – until the media grow bored and turn their short attention span to pounce on the next celebrity mishap. I can only hope that it doesn't destroy whatever pleasant memory Edward might have of that connection we so briefly shared.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'd give anything for a do-over, for another day in his company.

I'm still replaying the second video, pausing often on Edward's face, when my phone rings again.

It's Riley.

"You didn't call me back," he whines.

"Sorry, man. I'm still in a state of shock. Who the fuck posted this?"

"Who do you think? It had to be Kate. Didn't you see the restaurant logo all over it?"

"No, I kind of missed that. How did you find out about it?"

"James called me after a friend of his saw it."

"Wow. It's pretty unreal."

"Yeah, man, and did you see how many hits they've had already? Over a hundred thousand."

"Holy shit."

"What does Edward think about it?" Riley asks.

"That's a good question," I reply ruefully. "I have no idea."

"Well, call him, dumbass. What are you waiting for?"

"I don't have his number, Ri, so I won't be calling him any time soon."

"Bummer. Sorry, man."

"Yeah, me too."

We end our conversation and I go back to staring at my computer screen, watching the two videos over and over until my phone rings again. I don't recognize the number, and almost don't answer it, but my curiosity gets the best of me.

"Jasper Whitlock?"

It's the brisk, efficient voice of some unknown female, who sounds like she's speaking through a satellite uplink coming by way of Jupiter or something.

"Yes?"

"Rosalie Hale. Personal assistant to Edward Cullen."

"Oh! How is – "

"I'm calling because it has come to my attention that you have illegally uploaded two videos containing sound and images of Edward Cullen that were not contractually negotiated or compensated, either before filming or before posting."

"What?"

"Don't deny it, Mr. Whitlock. You had someone duplicate the images from Mr. Cullen's phone and have since uploaded them to the Internet, in violation of several exclusivity clauses that exist in most of Mr. Cullen's contracts with concert promoters and recording studios."

"What are you talking about?"

"Are you saying that you have no knowledge of the videos that are now circulating on the Internet that feature Mr. Cullen sitting in with your little group, the... um... " I can hear papers shuffling. "Ah, here it is," she resumes, "the Dust Covers, is it?" Her voice is dripping with disdain and I cringe, awaiting her next verbal assault on my poor ears. "Mr. Whitlock, are you still there?"

"Yes, ma'am. Could you tell me how Edward is doing? Can I speak to him please?"

She doesn't reply right away, but I can hear her muffled voice after she covers the phone with her hand and speaks to someone in the room for a minute before returning to the call. "Mr. Cullen is indisposed at the moment and – "

She lets out a yelp as the phone is suddenly wrenched from her hand.

"Jasper?"

"Edward! How are you, man?"

"Don't you dare ask me 'how are you, man.' Tell me how the fuck a video of me playing with you in that shitty little club is now all over the bloody Internet. Did someone pay you to post it?" He barely stops for breath, let alone to give me an opportunity to reply. "Well, I hope you made a ton of money, because when my solicitors are through with you, you're going to rue the day you ever put on that flea-bitten Santa suit."

"Edward, I – " My head is spinning from his diatribe. Solicitors? He's going to sue me? What the fuck?

"Jasper, I cannot tell you how furious I am. How could you do this to me? When Felix told me about those videos, I couldn't believe it. How could you, Jasper?"

His voice starts out angry and ends up sounding hurt. Anger I can handle. Anger means you're still alive and kicking. But the last thing I ever wanted to do was to hurt Edward Cullen.

"Edward, I swear to god, I didn't have anything to do with those videos getting posted. You have to believe me, man."

"I don't have to do anything, Jasper. You have done quite enough already. Was this your idea of revenge because I had to leave you on Christmas Eve? Are you happy now?"

"Revenge? What are you talking about? I didn't post those fucking videos. How could you think that I would do something like this to you?"

"How could I think otherwise, Jasper? I don't know you. I took a risk in spending time with you. I even played with your little trio. And this is how you repay me?"

"Edward, I'm sorry those videos got posted without your permission, but I'm telling you for the last time: I. Didn't. Do it." I am so furious that I want to throw the phone against the wall, but I resist the urge, hoping against hope that somehow he'll come to his senses and listen to what I'm saying.

We are both silent for a moment. I yearn for him to say one positive word, to give me even the slightest indication that he believes me.

"Well, Jasper, that's all I have to say to you. In the future, please desist from any further contact with me or my family or any of my employees."

"But... But... You're the one who called me!" I sputter, but he has already hung up.

I stare at the phone as if it will somehow come to life and begin to explain what the fuck just happened. I look at Edward's anguished face, still filling my computer screen. There's a battle being waged in my mind between sheer fury at him for making assumptions and not listening to my side, versus a deep anguish that somehow, I _am_ responsible, however indirectly, for something that is now causing him pain.

I don't want to deal with this anymore. I can't. I close the laptop and set the phone on top of it, then kick off my boots and crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. It's too early in the morning to think about all of this. About broken trust and broken hearts, about ending a future that never really began. I close my eyes, but I still see him. I bury my face in the pillow, and I see him. When I finally, _finally_ fall back asleep, I see him.

Hours later, I wake with the afternoon sun on my face. The bright light is harsh and glaring, just like reality. I can dream all I want to, but I'm never going to see Edward Cullen again.

* * *

**A/N:** Today's plot twist was brought to you by faite-comme-moi (author of the awesome fic, _The New Normal_). She wondered what would happen if the recording of the open-mic night at Katerina's ended up on YouTube. Thank you, Diane!

Everlasting love and thanks to TruceOver for tidying up my messy chapters and putting up with my anxiety attacks.

Happy New Year, dear readers, and thank you for making the last week of 2011 the best ever with your awesome reviews of ICL, not to mention all the alerting and favoriting that's been going on! Wow! I'm still a little overwhelmed – and far behind on review replies – so please be patient with me. I look forward to hearing from you again as this story continues in 2012.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **OMG! The review count went over 200 on Monday! I'm incredibly grateful. And you, dear readers, are simply awesome!

(Rated M for M/M slash; previous disclaimers apply to all chapters.)

* * *

_**The Times**_** (London). Cullen Denies Contract Violation.** _Rosalie Hale, publicist and personal assistant for pianist Edward Cullen, read a prepared statement outside the Cullen estate in Hampstead Heath this morning. "The YouTube videos were posted illegally and have been removed. Any further postings online will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law," Hale stated. Calls to Sir Carlisle Cullen went unanswered..._

-ICL-

**January 2**

So far, my new year sucks. The phone call from Edward was surreal. I'm not usually the type of person who gets depressed much, but I just can't stop thinking about it. About him. I can understand why he was so angry, but whatever happened to the concept of 'innocent until proven guilty'?

I sigh. Admittedly, I have enjoyed an occasional – make that daily – fantasy during the past week, imagining that I would meet Edward again someday, that he would be mourning Seth less and enjoying life more, that he'd kiss me again the way he had at the guest house.

I can't forget those intense, searing kisses, the perfection of his arms around me, holding me close. The memory of my mouth on his hot, hard cock has fueled my shower wanks all week long.

Now those memories are shattered. The note of finality in his voice was devastating to me. I hate how it was over so quickly. And here I am – the guy who specializes in the fine art of the one-night stand – longing for a second night with him, a third, a fourth.

It's kind of funny, now that I think about it. I never cared about anyone before, not enough to worry about whether they ever called me again anyway. There was always another guy to meet, another guy to fuck, and it never mattered much to me whether or not I had my fuck-du-jour's number in my phone by the time the night ended. Either I'd see him again or I wouldn't.

I don't think of myself as a man-whore, no matter how much Alice teases me about my hook-ups. I just socialize in a milieu where that is the norm. If some twink starts hanging around a little too long, it doesn't usually take much of an effort to hook him up with someone else. I just like to have fun, with no complications. Everyone has a good time and no one gets hurt. That philosophy has served me well for the past ten years.

So why does it suddenly feel totally ridiculous? Why does it matter what this one guy thinks of me? Why on earth does the idea that I will never talk to him or see him again hurt so fucking much?

What's worse is that I have no choice. _He _decided to change his Christmas plans and exclude me. _He _wouldn't let me explain about the videos. _He _didn't even leave me with a way to set things straight...

Then I remember. That phone number! He didn't mince any words letting me know that I am never to come near him again, but I don't think made the call from an anonymous hotel phone either.

I scramble for my phone and look at recent calls, then add his number to my contact list. Or maybe it's his assistant's number. Either way, I don't care. Not that I'll actually call him – I won't; I can't – but I like knowing that I could if I wanted to. It's reassuring – I can admit that much to myself. It's like a small flame warming the darkest corners of my heart.

What I should do is just delete the fucking number and put an end to it. That is undoubtedly what he has done on his end. I mean, what's the point of holding onto it when I am forbidden to use it? Yeah, my brain knows this, but my heart feels like it's being ripped to shreds when I even think about it. If I delete it, then my one last, pathetic connection to Edward will be gone… I just can't.

This is bad.

I've never been strung out over a guy before. Ever. Not even Peter. Our occasional hook-up is just that: a hook-up. It's not like either one of us is madly in love or anything. We just have a damn good time when we're together, whether we're dancing at a club, surrounded by other hot, sexy boys gyrating right along with us, or fucking back at his place or mine, topping or bottoming as the spirit moves us and enjoying the ride either way.

So what do I do with... What the hell is this anyway? A crush? Infatuation? Do I "have feelings" for Edward Cullen? And what would be the point of that? He certainly doesn't have feelings for me – other than anger and loathing, that is.

I sigh again. Why am I spending so much time even thinking about this? This is so atypical for me that I don't even recognize myself. It's only been a week, but Riley has made a comment or two, and Peter has started leaving frustrated voice-mail messages, telling me to stop jerking off and call him back already.

I just haven't felt like going out with anyone. Not even on New Year's Eve – a first for me – when I came home alone after work, wondering what Edward was doing, and slowly drank myself into a stupor. What does this mean? And am I ever gonna get laid again?

At this rate, I'm beginning to wonder. If all I do is sit around and obsess about Edward Cullen, my chances of getting laid are zero point zero zero. What I need to do is to go out sometime. Soon. Just jump back into the swing of things and pick up where I left off before Christmas.

In the olden days, BE (Before Edward), with thoughts like that, I would already be on the phone with Peter, planning our next date. I'd be stocking up on condoms and lube, getting my test results updated. Getting a haircut maybe. Shining my boots. I clean up pretty good.

Right now, I don't care if I ever leave my apartment again.

This is really bad.

However, I can only dwell on shit like this for so long before I run out of ramen noodles and beer, so I am forced to get dressed and prepare to face the world again. It's Monday and, as usual, I'm scheduled back at Katerina's to staff my home-away-from-home, the salad station. I put in a call to verify my starting time, and am beginning to look around for a clean shirt when the phone rings.

I see that it's the restaurant and pick up immediately, thinking it's Heidi, the hostess who does all of the scheduling. But it's not. It's Kate herself.

Man, do I have a lot to say to her. But she barely allows me to say hello before she launches into a little speech she seems to have prepared for the occasion.

"Jasper, it's Kate. I know you just talked to Heidi about your schedule, but she was supposed to let me know when you called because I have something I want to talk to you about."

Oh shit, I think in panic, she's gonna fire my ass.

"Jasper, I don't know if you've seen the videos on YouTube – "

That's it. I can't keep my mouth shut any longer.

"What the hell, Kate. Are you the one who posted them?"

"Um... Well, let's just say that someone here got a little creative after they uploaded the video onto my laptop."

"You gotta be kidding me. Do you know what you've done?"

"I've heard from Mr. Cullen's assistant and his attorney, if that's what you mean. Anyway, they've already been pulled," she says dismissively.

So much for my fifteen minutes of fame. Now comes the part where she tells me I'll have to pay her court costs because I'm the asshole who brought Edward to her place and I'm the one who invited him to play and I'm just so fucking furious with all of them that I can't keep a civil tongue in my mouth.

"Kate, I'd really like to talk more about this, but I'm gonna blow a gasket if I have to do that right this minute. I'll talk to you when I get there, okay?"

"Jasper, I didn't really call to talk about the videos."

"You didn't?"

"No. I wanted to check to see if you guys might be able to play on Monday nights for a while."

Admittedly, it's the slowest night of the week, but for me it's like being promoted from janitor to executive VP in terms of the job hierarchy at Katerina's.

"Wow, Kate. You mean it?"

"Of course."

"Um... let me talk to Riley and James. I'll try and let you know when I come in tonight, okay?"

"Sure."

"You do understand that we're just a trio, don't you?" The bitterness leaked out before I could put a lid on it. "Edward Cullen won't be joining us any time in the foreseeable future." Make that never, I think to myself and feel the blues come crashing down again.

She laughs awkwardly. "Of course I do, Jasper."

-ICL-

The call from Riley about the videos blew me out of the water. The call from Edward left me sinking in despair. The call from Kate begins to bring me back to the surface again.

Her timing is perfect. After the videos are pulled, I quickly grow tired of searching online for news of Edward Cullen. I read every single article I could find on Google. I've lost count of the blog posts. I've stared at every blurry screen-cap picture on tumblr. Frustrated, I scroll obsessively through Edward's website, as if that will somehow bring me closer to him. It has the opposite effect, however, as I study his impressive discography and his globe-trotting schedule – he won't be back in the U.S. until May – and once again I am reminded of the chasm between his world and mine.

And then I take another look at the news page on the site. While I've been mooning over his touring schedule, a new video has been uploaded.

First, the camera pans across a huge wrought-iron gate. In the background is one of those English stately homes – a very expensive pile of bricks on a vast piece of property. Then the camera focuses on two figures, one male and one female making their way toward the gate.

A tall, burly man – I'm startled to see that it's Felix – opens it for them and then stands by in 'ready' mode as the woman, a very tall, very blonde, impeccably dressed beauty, introduces herself. It's the woman who called me yesterday – Rosalie Hale, Edward's charming assistant. I recall Isa's whispered commentary about her scariness, which now evokes one of my first smiles of the new year.

A fairly strong breeze is evident in the movement of the lush plantings along the high walls on either side of the gate. With not a single hair out of place, Ms. Bossy-Pants reads her statement, then introduces "Edward Cullen, the People's Pianist." I snort as she steps back, scowling, to make way for Edward.

I gasp when I see him. He's standing awkwardly next to Felix, in front of the gate. He's dressed in a more informal version of his usual concert garb: black dress pants, black shoes, and a white dress shirt with the collar open and sleeves rolled up.

He steps up quickly to the tangle of microphones. As the wind ruffles his hair, I imagine running my fingers through it. The frown lines are deeply etched, and he looks tired.

I know how he feels.

He begins by reading from a white note card in his hand.

"...As you heard from Ms. Hale," he says, turning slightly toward her position behind him, "...the videos have been removed. Investigation is still underway to identify the person or persons responsible but, um..."

He pauses, glances again quickly at his assistant, then rapidly mutters an almost incomprehensible jumble of words. Frantically, I rewind the video. Then I rewind it again. On the third viewing I finally manage to make out what he's saying.

"...the band will surely be cleared of any wrongdoing."

In the background, I see the blonde's eyes widen and she takes a step forward. But her eyes are nowhere near as wide as mine. Did he really just absolve the Dust Covers of any responsibility for this mess? I scroll back the video, just to hear it again, then I lean forward, my nose almost pressed against the screen.

Ms. Bossy-Pants' lips form his name, but she is shouted down by the loud clamoring of the reporters. He quickly points at one of them, and I laugh. It looks like Edward has gone off-script.

"Mr. Cullen, the unauthorized video reportedly showed you playing at a small Chicago nightclub. Your comments, sir?"

He smiles. "Well, it was, um, rather unexpected. A spur-of-the-moment thing, you see. An invitation from a friend... It was fun."

I feel warm again for the first time in a week. In the background, I can see that Ms. Bossy-Pants is trying to refrain from rolling her eyes at the words coming out of Edward's mouth. Her tight smile is a signal that she is very unhappy with the way this is going.

Another reporter calls out, "Mr. Cullen, how did this happen?"

"I lent my phone to someone to record the session for personal use." He takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. "Our phones may be smart, but the people who use them? Not so much." The reporters chuckle politely at his self-deprecating humor. How British.

Then Ms. Bossy-Pants steps up, thanks everyone for coming, reminds them that the Duchy Originals/New Beginnings tour will start in February, and announces that any further questions should be directed to the offices of Cullen Enterprises.

With a deep sigh, I sit up straight and press replay, still mystified by our apparent exoneration. It's a relief to know that maybe I'm not going to spend the next year in court, being sued for something I didn't do. At the same time, I'm saddened by the fact that he didn't just pick up his stupid phone and tell me directly.

-ICL-

During the next couple of days, I realize how much I needed to have something good come out of those fucking videos. Although Kate has been dancing around taking responsibility for uploading them onto YouTube, she also has done something very nice for the Dust Covers. I'm just grateful that she doesn't blame me for the subsequent uproar. She seems to think it was all worthwhile somehow. I'm still not so sure about that.

It comes as no surprise that James and Riley are just as shocked and thrilled as I am when I tell them about her offer. James worries – unnecessarily, as it turns out – about having to rearrange his schedule a little to free up Monday nights, but then he's good to go.

Riley is always ready for anything. His girlfriend Monica is an artist, and Riley is always dragging us to gallery openings and performance art that she's involved in. She does us a huge favor by letting us spend practically every waking moment during the next two weeks rehearsing in her studio in Wicker Park. It's part of an old warehouse that has been converted to an artists' cooperative. Monica has studio space on the ground floor and a loft apartment on the floor above.

We love practicing at Monica's place, especially Riley. While James and I have to deal with inclement weather and irregular transportation schedules as we make our way home after rehearsals, Riley just climbs up the spiral staircase in the corner of the studio, and voila, he's home.

We scramble to add to our repertoire as quickly as possible. Kate has given us two weeks to start building a two-set program, three songs in each set, with one encore piece at the end of the second set. Fortunately, for our first night, she says she doesn't mind if we repeat some of the songs we sang for the open-mic night as long as we mix in new material and don't just play an identical set.

Of course it won't be identical, will it? Not without Edward sitting in.

Kate says that she has a lot of regular customers and she doesn't want them to be bored. The deal is that we'll keep adding new songs each week, then mix in the old pieces with the new to create new combinations. The timing is such that we will play the first set about midway during the first seating of the evening and then take a break until the late-night crowd comes in for the second seating.

Although we are all very excited by the opportunity, once we sit down to work on the new material, it's all pretty daunting. It has taken us weeks – or, to be honest, months – to become really proficient at the four songs we performed when Edward was there. To add more every week now seems almost impossible.

No one has ever really taken us seriously before – least of all ourselves – which doesn't make any sense when you look at what we bring to the table. James has been playing drums and driving his family crazy since he was six. He never stopped playing all through high school and continued in the marching band in college, as well as performing in the college's jazz band for four years.

Riley started out on violin when he was three – that whole crazy Suzuki thing – but it turned out that he was not such a big fan of the violin. He switched to piano when he was ten and was an accompanist all through high school for those solo and ensemble competitions. In college he had a girlfriend who taught him how to play the guitar, and then he got interested in the bass guitar and they played together as a duo in some of the funky cafes around Northwestern University in Evanston.

My story isn't so different from theirs: a lifelong interest in music, but not much ambition. I majored in music education at the University of Chicago, did my student teaching and everything. Couldn't wait to start turning on young minds to the joys of music. However, first the state started cutting music programs from the budget, and then local schools didn't want to hire substitute teachers with long hair. I stopped getting any interviews at all when a male art teacher got busted for inappropriate sexual conduct with his students. It was already bad enough for guys in elementary education, who are often viewed suspiciously as latent pedophiles, but that was the clincher. These days, unless you come to an interview wearing a dress, teaching jobs with young kids in the Chicago area are hard to come by.

I suppose I could have gone elsewhere, could have found a more open-minded community, but I love Chicago. I've lived here all my life and I never really gave any serious thought to leaving. So that's how I find myself making salads in a restaurant and playing a department-store Santa as I continue giving private lessons and applying for teaching jobs in Greater Chicagoland, without success.

Our ragtag trio came together a couple years ago at an open-mic night at Kafein, the cafe where Riley and his girlfriend were playing. They were in the process of breaking up at the time, and Riley heard me play that night, then approached me about forming a duo. I thought it was kind of a bizarre idea but then James showed up with a single snare drum and just blew us all away. At that point, Riley and I just looked at each other and said simultaneously, "Drums." And so James was invited to join us.

I've been trying to convince Riley to switch over to piano from time to time, but he's still in love with his bass guitar and tells me that I am the one who ought to be tickling the ivories. Some of the music we like has a very strong piano line, but since the session with Edward, I haven't gone near a piano, except to accompany the carol singing on Christmas Eve.

We definitely have our work cut out for us. We spend so much time rehearsing at Monica's place that we joke about bringing sleeping bags and moving in. Riley looks startled, but Monica just rolls her eyes, laughs, and says, "No way, guys. No way. One of you is enough."

And so, as we make our way through the cold days of January, the dust quickly settles around the media tempest in a video teapot. I find myself performing more than I ever expected, and gradually thinking about Edward Cullen a little less.

* * *

A/N: Many thanks to TruceOver not only for naming Edward's upcoming concert tour, but also for approving the name of Riley's girlfriend (in addition to making this chapter more suitable for public consumption; any errors are solely my responsibility.)

FYI, Duchy Originals (you can google it!) is the commercial venture sponsored by Prince Charles to promote organic farming practices and products. I have no idea whether they actually ever underwrite concert tours, but I was looking for something earth-friendly as a sponsor (as opposed to a credit card or a shoe company, for example).


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This chapter is about a million times better than it started out being thanks to my brilliant beta, TruceOver. In addition, Kate and faite-comme-moi provided much-needed suggestions for improvement. The usual disclaimers apply. Rated M for M/M slash.

* * *

_**The Times **_**(London): **_**New Beginnings**_** Worth the Wait.** _After a year without a single recording, Edward Cullen's latest CD, New Beginnings, marks a decidedly upbeat change of direction. _The Times' _Kaya Burgess spoke with the piano virtuoso as he prepared for his upcoming Duchy Originals/New Beginnings tour of a dozen Commonwealth nations..._

-ICL-

**February 6**

I can't believe it's February already. The hot weather guy from Channel 7 tells us that this has been the mildest winter since 1870 or something. I'm not really sure, because I'm usually too busy staring at his lips to listen to what he's actually saying. All I know is that this time last year we were still digging out from under the Snowpocalypse, and tonight it's a very tolerable 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Not bad for Chicago in February.

January just disappeared in an exhausting, exhilarating blur. Riley, James, and I get together to practice at Monica's almost every day, but it never seems like enough. We're getting reading to begin our fourth Monday-night performance at Katerina's, and we're still so shaky that it's almost embarrassing at times.

In any case, Kate hasn't fired us yet, so maybe we are improving a little. And she's not likely to either, as long as she's still making money from our little video misadventure. We keep adding to our repertoire every week as she demanded, and tonight marks the debut of our first original song. It's not quite as polished as we'd like, but I guess it, like anyything else, will get better with practice.

"Jasper!"

Alice is the only one who injects a squeal like that into my name. She and Garrett are sitting at the bar, waiting for me. They asked meet them an hour before we go on, so here I am.

Alice reaches into a handbag that's almost as big as she is and pulls her iPad from its depths. She displays Katerina's website and taps angrily on the screen.

"I can't stand it, Jasper. This is the worst publicity since... since..."

"Since the Pied Piper arrived in Hamelin," Garrett interjects. He's big on fairy tales, but he does tend to get carried away at times.

"What are you talking about, Alice?"

"What am I talking about? Haven't you seen this?" She clicks on a link, then waves the iPad in front of my face.

_Monday Madness at Katerina's_

_Now appearing _

_Chicago's Own_

**The Dust Covers**

_Live _

_Jasper Whitlock (guitar, piano, and vocals), Riley Biers (bass guitar), and James Hunter (percussion)_

_The Dust Covers uncover their eclectic musical groove for a limited engagement _

_following their recent appearance here with piano virtuoso Edward Cullen._

_Exclusively at Katerina's _

_1920 West Irving Park Road_

_8 p.m. & 10 p.m._

_Reservations Suggested_

It seems like I'm not the only one flipping out over the way Kate keeps abusing Edward's unexpected appearance. She even has the nerve to use a screen shot from one of the infamous videos that includes Riley, James, me – and Edward. And the wording is insulting.

Even so, it's clear that business has picked up considerably since the video debacle. Not that Kate doesn't deserve it; she always brings in a variety of talented musicians and frequently has a full house, even on weeknights. However, our first appearance was quite an eye opener. The place was packed, and a substantial number of people had to be turned away. Riley, James, and I are still kind of shocked by it all. Not that we won't enjoy our little bubble of local notoriety while it lasts.

"Yeah, I know," I reply. "It makes me feel kind of sick. I've tried to talk to her about it, but I get nowhere. Kate is one stubborn woman." I shudder to think of what the smack-down would be like between Katerina Denali and Rosalie Hale if Rosalie ever finds out how Kate is exploiting this, although part of me would love to see it. And I am all too aware of the _limited engagement_ mentioned in the announcement, conscious that Kate has not said anything specific about how many Mondays we will actually be performing. At first, I was too naïve to ask. Now I don't really want to know. I'm just grateful for what we have right now. I guess we'll just keep doing this until she tells us to stop.

"It's _tragic_. Absolutely _terrible_," Alice laments._ "_Who the hell did she hire to put that thing together anyway? Kindergartners? I swear to god, toddlers could have done a better job. The alignment is off, the font size is all wrong. Don't even get me started on the color scheme. You _have_ to convince Kate to let us fix it."

Alice and Garret are in the process of setting up a graphic design company together. He insists on calling it the Shoemaker and the Elves, after the fairy tale about helpful elves who secretly assist a poor shoemaker and his wife. Garrett is the Shoemaker – his last name is Schumacher, actually – but there's only one elf at the moment. That would be Alice, of course, but they like to think big.

"Okay, Ms. Elf." I can't help but roll my eyes as I say it, knowing about Garrett's proclivities. He's come up with a clever name for their company, but I don't even want to think about what it means for them as a couple.

"Don't knock it until you try it, Jasper."

"Yeah? Um, no." I don't need to try having sex with a girl to know that an elf fetish isn't for me either. Just the thought of Edward dressed up as an elf makes me want to bleach my brain.

The look on my face must be more grossed out than understanding, because Alice swats my arm and glares, then turns the tables on me.

"Well, genius, how the hell did you guys come up with the name for the Dust Covers anyway?"

I sigh. "I don't have time for this, Alice." Well, that's not exactly true, but I really don't want to explain our lame choice of a name. It seemed like a good idea at the time. We started as a cover band, brushing the dust off some of our favorite oldies and putting them back into circulation again. But for a while now, we've been itching to do something more original, and tonight's the night.

"Quit stalling and tell me. How can we create a better image for you if we don't understand your roots?"

Alice still feels partly responsible for the video fiasco. She was the one who started filming our set with Edward, using the camera in his cell phone. She passed the phone to Garrett when she made a quick trip to the ladies' room and then promptly forgot all about it until Kate's assistant handed it back to her while Edward and I were in the men's room.

We began putting the pieces together a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, no sooner had Alice closed the restroom door when Kate's assistant appeared at the table, offering to finish the filming from the other side of the stage. Garrett thought this had all been prearranged and gave Edward's phone to the assistant without hesitation. Then he too forgot about it in the ensuing emotional meltdown after Edward played his solo piece dedicated to Seth.

To make up for their part in all this, Alice and Garrett have offered their services as graphic designers to the Dust Covers.

"Spill," she presses. She is relentless.

"Well," I begin," you know how we always talk about how we want to write some original material?"

She nods.

"But when we first got together, we didn't have any original material, so we started by covering other people's songs."

"What about the Dust?" she asks.

"Um, maybe it's because we dust off some oldies and make them sound new again?"

"You say that like you're not sure," Alice observes with a laugh. "Is that the best you can do?" Now it's her turn to roll her eyes and then roll up her sleeves. "Well, here's what Garrett and I have come up with so far."

She then pulls up a test site on her iPad. "Here are a couple ideas for a website, with space for your appearance schedule, a blog, and your original music. We'll get you going on Twitter, and also help you set up some promotional activities with a few more bloggers, radio stations and other media."

I had mentioned to her how a couple of local music bloggers wrote about us after our first Monday-night performance, and she ran with it. The bloggers gave us high marks for effort and technique, but they were unanimously thumbs down about our lack of original material. Well, that would change tonight.

I'm a little overwhelmed by how much they've done. "What about Facebook?" I ask.

"I can certainly put together a Facebook page for you, but frankly, I'd really rather concentrate on your website right now," Alice admits. "We'd like to do a couple of photo shoots around Chicago and videos of you here at Katerina's. We'll start with a test video tonight." She hands me three folders containing paper copies of their proposal, and I promise to give them to the guys and get their feedback ASAP.

This is far more sophisticated than anything we've ever done before – so much better than those videos made by James's sister, or the homemade flyers that we photocopied and posted on utility poles in our neighborhoods and on supermarket bulletin boards.

"This is too much, Alice. I know you offered to do this, but I wish we could afford to pay you something for all that work."

"You don't have to, Jasper," she responded. "I'd just like to get permission from the three of you to include anything we create for you as part of our sample kit to show to prospective customers," she said.

"Of course."

"And I'd like you to introduce us to Kate."

"That I can do," I tell her. I'm willing to bet that Alice and her elf-boy will be doing work for Kate in no time. "But right now you'll have to excuse me for a minute."

It's nearly time for our first set, but there's no sign of Peter. After almost a month of silence, he has finally managed to fit us into his schedule. But he's late, which is very unusual for him.

I ask at the hostess stand, but no one has seen him. I send a text – _where r u?_ – and get an almost immediate reply: _Cum outside & c 4 yourself._

I step out into the cool night, grateful that there has been virtually no snow since that damn blizzard before Christmas. I am astonished to see the line of people waiting to get in. It stretches past the Ancient Dragon Meditation Center next door, past Fast Super Burrito beyond that, and all the way to Dr. Siegel's Eyecare Center. I walk toward the end of the line, looking for Peter, when he suddenly appears in front of me.

It's been more than six weeks since I last saw him, and he looks better than ever.

"Dude!" he exclaims as he wraps his arms around me and I almost drop Alice's folders so that I can do the same thing. Instead, I end up giving him an awkward one-armed hug and a quick kiss before he puts his hands on my shoulders and holds me at arm's length. "What the hell happened to you?" he asks with a laugh.

I look at him, perplexed for a moment, before I remember the band's little makeover last month, courtesy of Kate. Ambitious control freak that she is, she insists that we maintain a certain look if we're going to be performing regularly. She's very specific about it too: no sagging jeans and no flannel. T-shirts are okay as long as they're not ripped. She even sent us to her stylist for a haircut and a shave a couple of days before our first performance. She doesn't mind scruff, she claims, as long as it's tidy.

Even though I agree that we shouldn't look like hobos, we aren't about to make ourselves into the Partridge Family. I do like my new haircut though. The sides and back are cut short but the top is still long. Tonight it's pulled up into a nifty little top-knot. James now shaves regularly, having given up the beard he likes to grow every winter. Fortunately, because of the mild winter, he hasn't complained... much. He insists on keeping his ponytail, even though it still looks like a hogtied mullet. Riley doesn't need much in the way of improvement beyond an occasional trim and a bit of styling; he's always been adorable. If he'd ever shown the slightest inclination of batting for my team, I would have tapped that a long time ago. Too bad that's never gonna happen.

"It's about time you showed up," I complain. After I finished my Santa gig at the mall, he had left a slew of voice mails and texts right up until New Year's Day, and then I didn't hear from him again until yesterday, when he called and said he'd be here tonight. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Well," he says evasively, "I was waiting for you guys to get your act together first, so I wouldn't have to suffer too much listening to you."

"No guarantees, man. We're trying some new material tonight, and I'm afraid we're gonna suck big time."

"Well, I guess I'm not the only one planning on doing some sucking tonight." His dark eyes gleam in the low light at the entrance to the restaurant and my body responds the way it always does when I'm around him.

I sigh. "Quit it, Pete. You can't do this to me, not right now anyway. I have enough to deal with tonight without sporting a boner on stage too," I mock-complain. He just squeezes my ass and laughs as we head for the bar. I introduce him to Alice and Garrett, taking a quick look at my watch. I can hear Riley and James warming up.

We're due to go on in a couple of minutes, and Kate has a hissy fit if we start late. I leave the elf, the shoemaker, and my hot date at the bar and hurry to the tiny stage to get ready. Riley, who is usually the most laid back of the three of us, is practically crackling with nervous energy. He's been inspired to write a lot of songs since he met Monica, but he's so anxious tonight that he asked her to stay home.

"Jasper? James? I need to ask you guys for a favor." Riley is sweating buckets. James looks at me, and I can see that he's worried about Riley too.

"Ri, are you gonna pass out, or hurl or something?" I ask.

"No. I'm fine, I think." He stands stock-still, and looks like he's doing an internal assessment, checking out all of his bodily functions. "I should probably pee before we start," he amends, then continues. "I just want to ask if we can do my song first. If I have to wait until we do the encore, I'm definitely gonna hurl."

James tries to cover up a laugh, but I just shake my head at the thought of him puking. On stage. While being videotaped.

"Of course we can do your song first."

It's an odd little love song. He calls it "Save Your Love for Me." I don't really understand why he asked Monica to stay away tonight, because we've been practicing it at her place every night for the past week. She's cool about it though. I guess it helps just knowing that someone has written a song for you, even if he doesn't want you to hear him sing it in public.

Kate comes out of the kitchen at 8:00 on the dot and launches immediately into her little spiel.

"These three guys made their debut here in December with Edward Cullen on piano. Now they are our current Monday Madness featured performers. Please welcome The Dust Covers." There's a smattering of polite applause, but I can hear Alice, Garrett, and Peter cheering from the bar. It makes me smile as I try not to roll my eyes at Kate's unceasing, blatant abuse of Edward's name for her own glorification.

Making a gracious gesture in our direction, she steps away from the microphone, and we launch into the song without any additional introduction.

_My head's a tambourine, my kidney's filled with stones,_

_And if your voice begins to irritate, I'll need to be alone._

_But don't you take it the wrong way._

_Save your love for me._

_This world's a colonoscopy._

_Save your love for me..._

As usual, Kate is out on the floor, schmoozing with the diners while we sing. She never misses an opportunity to mention Edward's name, and it's beginning to piss me off. She talks about him as if she has a standing invitation for brunch at the guest house whenever he's in Chicago. I should have known that she had some sort of ulterior motive for inviting us to play on Monday nights, but it's hard to stay angry with her. After all, we actually get to be real musicians for a while. And business is booming. There's not an empty seat in the house.

I catch a glimpse of Kate's face as she realizes that it's not one of our usual covers, quirking one eyebrow as she listens to the lyrics. Both eyebrows go up at the mention of kidney stones and I nearly burst out laughing at her queasy-looking reaction to a colonoscopy.

She doesn't normally take the mic during our set, so it's a surprise when she joins us again after we finish the song. Riley is grinning from ear to ear, relieved to have it out of the way. The audience seems to like it, given the rather raucous applause.

"Well, boys, that was rather... _unusual._ Any more surprises tonight?" I can hear a note of irritation behind her bantering voice as she almost glares at us.

"Nope," I reply with a big, friendly smile. I think I'm beginning to like this original material stuff. Kate quickly adds something about extending happy hour until 10 p.m., then leaves the stage.

The rest of the songs are our usual mix of old oldies and new oldies, and we enjoy the way the audience responds, swaying to the beat in their seats, or singing along with us, then giving us a nice round of applause at the end. Kate doesn't interrupt us again, but I do notice her talking with a cute guy at the bar as we finish the first set. I wonder if I can get her to introduce me to him during the break, but he's gone by the time I leave the stage.

Alice and Garrett are gone too. Gone to wherever happy elves go to sleep – or not sleep – at night, I imagine with a shudder. Peter and I enjoy a beer and a bowl of _fasolada _at the bar before he stands up and grabs my hand.

"Got time for a quickie before your next set?" he asks with a grin. He doesn't have to ask me twice. But I balk when he pulls me toward the men's room. I just can't go in there with him, not after what happened with Edward.

He gives me a funny look when I change direction and take him through the kitchen instead, earning dirty looks from the chef. I quickly step outside into the alley behind the restaurant and push him up against the wall. It's not exactly a romantic setting, but I've been wanting to do this ever since he stepped out of the line outside the restaurant door.

In the time that remains before the second set, we manage to squeeze in a lot of kissing and some rather unsatisfactory dry humping.

"Is that what you're calling foreplay these days?" Peter says with a smirk as we go back inside.

"Stick around, my friend," I say. "There's a whole lot more where that came from." I wiggle my eyebrows up and down, leering at him until he laughs.

-ICL-

Once we finish the second set, I arrange tomorrow's practice time with James and Riley, and then quickly depart with Peter. We stop for some beer at a convenience store near my apartment building, where he starts talking about the annual Cupid's Ball on Saturday at Spin.

"Jasper, you just _have _to come."

"Truer words were never spoken, my friend," I laugh.

Apparently, three porn stars are scheduled to make an appearance. Obviously they're not as classy as the star I met before Christmas, but I think I've been starstruck quite enough already. And none of them are from the Corbin Fisher studio, so I'm not particularly motivated to attend.

"What are we gonna do? Flirt with the 'stars'? Been there, done that," I mutter.

"Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about that..."

"Later, man. Let's just get the beer and get out of here." I struggle mightily on the way home to shake off the disgruntled mood that this conversation has brought on. When we arrive at my place, Peter borrows my laptop and goes to the Spin site to show me the three porn stars. We spend a few minutes online comparing their assets to our CF faves as he continues his efforts to persuade me to go with him. I finally relent and agree, thinking that maybe I do need to start getting out more.

Afterward, we take two more beers and sprawl on the sofa, sitting at opposite ends, with our bare feet and denim-clad legs in a tangle in the middle.

"So, what else is new, Jasper? You look... different."

"I already told you that Kate wanted us to clean up."

"I'm not talking about your haircut, although you do look good." He takes a swig of beer and laughs. "Of course, you don't look quite as dazzled as you did in those videos..."

I choke on my beer, spitting it out all over our jeans. "You saw them?"

"Hell yes, baby. You were positively incandescent when you were singing to _him_. I've never seen you look like that before, Jasper. What the hell happened?"

"Well, he came to the gingerbread house with his kid..."

Peter snorts. "He has a kid?"

"Yeah. She's pretty awesome actually, considering what she's been through."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"You need to watch less porn and read more news, Peter. At least once in a while. Edward's business manager was her other father, and he died in a plane crash last year on Christmas Eve."

"Oh yeah, I do remember something about that. So what's the deal? Are you being recruited as Daddy #3?"

I feel a flame of anger flare up in my gut. "It's not like that at all, Pete. The guy is still in mourning. He knows it's time to move on, but..." I shrug. "It's not easy. And..." I pause, having a hard time saying what needs to be said. "And I don't think I'm the one who's gonna be able to help him with that." I finish my beer, hoping that I can swallow around the lump in my throat. I can't believe I still feel so much. I lean back on the arm of the sofa and close my eyes.

Peter takes the beer bottle from my hand and puts it on the coffee table next to his, then straddles me on the sofa. "I'm sorry, baby," he says sympathetically, pushing my T-shirt up and planting little kisses on my nose, my cheeks, my neck, my chest. "When will you see him again?"

"Never," I sigh. "He kind of ran away from me on Christmas Eve. Took the first excuse that came up and split. And then he thought I was the one who uploaded those videos."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, ouch is right. I'm still not really sure if he believes that it wasn't me, although he did say something later in a press-conference video that made it sound like we're in the clear." I sigh again, deeply.

"Let Peter make it all better," he says softly as he unzips my jeans, then kisses my soft cock. "Pretend it's Edward's mouth on you now. He's the one who wants to taste you, to suck you and make you hard." His hands pull off my jeans and toss them aside.

This can't be a good idea, can it? Pretending that I'm fucking Edward instead of Peter just has _bad idea_ written all over it. Didn't I just say that I'll never have Edward? Doesn't that mean I should try forgetting about him, not pretending that his mouth is around my dick? Still, I can't help groaning as he licks and sucks me to hardness, and I do nothing to stop him.

"It's his tongue in your slit, licking up that pre-cum..."

"Peter!" I gasp.

"No, Jasper," he says in a low voice. "I think you need this. Close your eyes and just feel. Feel him and let him take care of you, baby." He lifts off my T-shirt, then stands up.

I watch him as he strips off his clothes, his body in peak condition, every muscle smooth and defined, his thick cock stiff and bouncing as he reaches out and pulls me up from the sofa, leading the way into my bedroom. Only the string of chili-pepper lights are on, lending a surreal red glow to our encounter.

It isn't the first time that we've played out our fantasies, but this is far more intense. My heart is pounding as he pushes me down on the bed and then straddles me again, picking up where he left off before, licking and kissing his way down my body and sucking my cock back to full hardness.

I stop trying to make sense of it and just close my eyes, losing myself in the fantasy. Instead of Peter's straight blond hair, I imagine Edward's messy auburn spikes. Instead of Peter's thick, blunt fingers, I feel Edward's long, elegant ones, caressing me as if I were a priceless ivory keyboard. His music for Seth surges through my mind, rising and falling with the same rhythm as Peter's mouth on my cock.

In my mind's eye, I see Edward's face, the way he looked as I sucked his cock. The one moment when he was finally beginning to let go of his grief, to set it aside for a few minutes at least. So close...

"I'm close, P – " One hand comes up to keep me from saying his name, to keep us in this closed-off bubble a few minutes longer. I kiss his hand, then take his thumb into my mouth, sucking it just like he's sucking my cock.

We both moan.

I try to imagine what would have happened at the guest house if Edward and I hadn't been interrupted. I would have made him come; I have no doubt about that. But then what? I see myself climbing up his body, shedding any remaining clothes, and using my fingers on him... In him... I don't know whether or not Edward bottomed for Seth – although my hunch is that he probably did – but I want to feel him under me now, to push inside him and feel his hot flesh all around me...

"Stop," I say softly. I'm so close, but I want to go all the way with this. "I want to come inside you."

Peter takes one last, long lick up my cock, one final plunge of his tongue in my slit, then kisses his way back up my body. "How do you want me, baby?" he asks in a low voice. His hand goes to his cock, giving it the friction that it needs.

"On your back."

We quickly trade places and I go down on him, using one hand to hold his cock as I run my tongue around the head. He grabs the lube on my bedside table and rubs it on the fingers of my free hand. I slide one finger inside him, then two, three... He's moaning and writhing and begging.

"C'mon, Jasper. Fuck me." He rips open the condom packet and rolls the condom down my cock, then adds lube. I slowly push into his body, ready to finish what I started with Edward.

It's a familiar dance between the two of us, but tonight I close my eyes, the better to see Edward's piercing green eyes, and not Peter's familiar brown ones. I press forward and quickly sink my full length into the heat of his body. I push and grind, adding extra pressure to his prostate. He moans with pleasure.

"More," he grunts, and I comply, slowly at first, and then more quickly as my own need increases. I imagine Edward with his hand on his cock, stroking himself in time with my thrusts.

I give him everything I've got, thrusting harder and faster. The more I give, the more I take from the fantasy, falling deeper into believing that I'm with Edward for the first time instead of with a friend that I've fucked for convenience for years.

When I imagine Edward, I don't just feel a tightness in my groin, I feel it in my chest. I feel it everywhere.

"More, Jasper," he says again, whispering in my ear. I swear the words sound British, and my heart beats even faster as I give him more, moving more quickly, more deeply, until the sweat is dripping from my body and both of us are grunting every time I go as deep as I can.

I open my eyes. "I want to see you come," I tell him. "I want to feel you..." Moaning, I bite my tongue as I almost say Edward's name, but I'm not so far gone that I don't know whose powerful body it is that's squeezing my cock. He shudders as his come arcs out across his belly, painting him with white ribbons that finally pull my orgasm all the way from my toes. As I come into the condom deep inside his body, I can't help imagining what it would be like to do this bareback, to feel this without a condom. To feel Edward without a condom.

If that happened, I don't think I'd ever want to stop, but right now I can't breathe. Untangling my arms from around his legs, I drop down onto his chest, burying my face in his neck as I feel his slick wetness on our bellies. Our chests are heaving, our lungs sucking in deep breaths as our heartbeats slow and I begin to take in the enormity of what I've done.

At least I didn't say his name out loud. This little game might have been Peter's idea, but that seems like crossing a line somehow.

"Thank you," I whisper as my breathing begins to return to normal. "I needed that."

"That's for sure," he responds, wrapping his arms around me and turning his head for a deep kiss. "Any time, baby," he adds with a laugh.

We lie there together for a few minutes until I get goosebumps on my ass from the cool air in the bedroom. "Damned heater," I grumble. "Works great in August, but it's worthless in February."

"Aw, baby, didn't I warm you up good enough?" Peter teases. A moment later, he slides off the bed and goes into the bathroom. When he returns, he collects his clothes and starts getting dressed.

He seldom stays over. He doesn't care if I stay at his place, but he usually leaves after we have sex here. After all these years, I'm used to it. Tonight I wouldn't have minded if he stayed, because I don't particularly want to be alone after going so deep into that fantasy, but within minutes he's putting on his jacket.

"What's the hurry, Pete?" I ask. "You could stay for a while, you know."

He shrugs. "I'll see you on Saturday at Spin," he says, pausing at the door only long enough to give me a rather perfunctory good-bye kiss. And then he's gone before I can ask him about the peculiar expression on his face.

I'm sure I look confused myself, staring at the door as it closes behind him. It's not like we cuddle in the afterglow – although he does give a good cuddle when he's in the mood – but I've never seen him take off so quickly. Maybe I'm just more aware of it tonight because I could have used a little company, for a while at least.

I wander aimlessly around my apartment for a few minutes, and end up carrying beer bottles to the kitchen and tossing discarded clothes into the laundry basket in my bedroom closet. Who am I kidding? I finally give in, opening up my laptop and clicking on the bookmarked homepage for edwardcullen dot com.

I sigh. It's inevitable, no matter how much I try to resist. I just happen to check it at least once a day. Usually twice, to be honest, and sometimes even three times, which probably isn't the greatest mental-health strategy, but here I am again.

And there he is again, in all his glory, accepting a huge bouquet of roses on the stage of the Sydney Opera House, a modest smile on his face. I stare at the photo as if he'll turn and smile at me if I sit here long enough.

I'm shaken out of my trance by a generic ringtone. I grab my phone as it continues ringing and, for half a second, my jaw drops as I alternate looking between the laptop screen and my phone.

I finally come to my senses and answer it when I realize that it's a number in the Chicago area.

"Hey," says a stranger's voice. "Is this Jasper Whitlock?"

"Yeah. What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Jasper, my name is Alistair Randall. Hope it's not too late to be calling. I..."

I almost drop the phone right there. I know who he is: the lead guitarist of my favorite local group, Chicagoland. Alice, Garrett, and I went to see them play at Lincoln Hall before Christmas and they were amazing.

"...I hope you don't mind, but I asked Kate Denali for your agent's phone number. She said she didn't think you had representation yet, and she gave me your number instead."

"No, we don't," I admit. Who needs a manager when it's just a temporary gig at the place where I make salads all weekend?

"So you're probably wondering who I am and why I'm calling."

"You're the lead singer and songwriter for Chicagoland," I say in a rush.

"Cool," he laughs. "Anyway, Jasper, here's the deal: We've been talking with some friends at Slow Food USA, and we managed to put together a proposal for Whole Foods..."

I pull the phone away from my ear for a second and look at it with a frown as if it will somehow explain what Chicagoland and Whole Foods have to do with me.

"...and they're going to underwrite a short tour across the south starting in March."

"That sounds pretty interesting," I say, although I still have no idea why he's calling me.

"Anyway, I saw those videos, and I came by tonight to see you at Katerina's, but I had to leave before I had a chance to talk with you. That first song was great, and I hope you guys have more new material because I was wondering if the Dust Covers would consider trying out to be the opening act on the tour."

I suddenly realize that he was the cute guy talking to Kate earlier this evening. I stand there for a moment in shocked silence. A month ago we did an open-mic night, and now we're talking about touring?

"Jasper? You still there?"

"Uh, yeah, man. Are you serious?"

He laughs. "I'm completely serious. We want to go with another local group and work our way south, then swing east. If we can get everything set up, we'll leave in March and be back by the end of May, although there's also a chance that it might extend into June if we get some good word-of-mouth going and add some more gigs. We won't be playing in arenas or anything. Not on this trip anyway." He laughs again. "It'll be mostly small venues – regional theaters and such – in cities where Whole Foods is looking to expand, but I think it'll be pretty cool. Oh, we'll spend a week in Nashville too, and we're trying to get some studio time written into the contract."

He could have knocked me over with a feather. As far as surprise phone calls go, I'll take this one over Edward's angry rant any day of the week. I take a deep breath before I speak.

"So, when are the try-outs?"

* * *

A/N: Okay, in case it isn't already completely obvious, I must admit that don't know a thing about how tours are organized or negotiated. Feel free to educate me! Also, please let me know what songs you'd recommend for the Dust Covers' playlist. ("Save Your Love for Me" comes from the Suckers' _Wild Smile _CD.)

Thank you so much for the reviews and alerts and favorites. Some of you have turned off private messaging on FFn and I can't respond to your generous comments. Please know that I do love hearing from you and appreciate all of your kind words, suggestions, and questions about the story. And I will catch up on review replies soon, I promise!

P.S. If you want to see the tiny stage at Katerina's, check out the videos on the Entertainment page at katerinas dot com. I'd add a link on my profile, but that doesn't seem to be possible at the moment.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Once again, my awesome beta TruceOver has brought me back from the brink, with lots of brainstorming and WCs and encouragement, until this chapter emerged. And faite-comme-moi generously continues to share her insights as my pre-reader. Of course, any errors and/or other weirdness are solely my responsibility.

The usual disclaimers apply. Rated M for M/M slash.

* * *

_**The Times **_**(London): Cullen Wows Kiwis. **_After a series of sold-out concerts in Australia, Edward Cullen continues his Duchy Originals/New Beginnings tour in New Zealand, delighting fans there with a surprising encore during his performance in Wellington..._

-ICL-

**March 5**

I stand on the tiny stage that has sheltered us for the past two months and look out over the smiling, upturned faces, heads nodding to the beat, bodies dancing in their seats as they clap and whoop along with us through our set.

One last song and then we're done, at least on stage at Katerina's. We've gone all out tonight and we're wringing wet from the effort, right down to the red bandana I've started wearing like a sweatband tied around my head.

Kate has a strange look of relief on her face as we finish the song, then thank the audience for an amazing eight-week run and try to leave the stage. Before we can move off, the standing-room-only collection of regulars, a small herd of groupies, and many of our friends are on their feet, cheering and applauding, then surging forward to congratulate us and wish us well.

It takes us fifteen more minutes to travel the six feet from the stage to the table where our friends are waiting. Once we're all there, Riley wraps his arms around Monica as she pops open a bottle of champagne. We are crowded around the very same table where I sat holding hands and drinking ouzo with Edward less than three months ago. Tonight we toast each other enthusiastically and then proceed to get very, very drunk.

Alice and Garrett are here, beaming with pride as if we were their own scruffy, overgrown offspring. They are using this occasion to launch our website, and Garrett has been filming all evening to have more video footage to add to it.

Alice hands me her iPad with a URL already typed in. I press _enter_ and there it is: the Dust Covers' very own website. It looks sleek and professional, far better than I imagined it would. Hell, I never even thought we'd have a website, let alone something like this. I click on the different pages, my grin getting bigger with each one. The video of Riley singing about colonoscopies is great.

I reach across the table and grab Alice's hand. "I can't thank you enough, Alice. Your elf-boy too."

"You like it?" she asks with a grin.

"You know I do."

"I'm still waiting for one of you guys to write a blog entry about the tryouts. Or do I have to do everything myself?"

"Oh, man. Those tryouts..." I'm shaking my head as I recall that endless day two weeks ago. "We were sweating bullets when we saw who else showed up. Six other bands, Alice. We were the last to go on, so we got to wait and watch while all the other groups did their thing. And they were all really awesome."

"Yeah," Riley interrupts from across the table, "Jasper just kept getting paler and paler as the day went on. I thought he was gonna faint like a little girl." The back of his hand sweeps dramatically across his forehead as if he's about to swoon.

"Look who's talking." I wad up a napkin and fire it across the table at him. "I'm not the one who almost puked on stage a few weeks ago."

Naturally, it misses Riley and bounces off Monica's shoulder. She grabs it and flicks it back at me, hitting me square on the nose. I know when I've been bested, so I don't retaliate.

"Hey, James," Alice asks as she laughs at my defeat. "What was your favorite part of the tryouts?"

James has invited two of the groupie girls to join us. They are each sitting on one of his knees, giggling and blushing as his hands roam freely under their skirts. "What?" he asks, clearly too distracted to have heard Alice's question.

"My favorite part was when it was over," Monica responds, picking up the slack. "It was the first time in two weeks that any of these guys got a decent night's sleep."

Riley looks at her askance. "Sleep?" he asks with a grin. "I don't remember getting any sleep that night."

Monica smacks him on the arm. "That's because you were too delirious from sleep deprivation to remember anything that happened."

"Oh, I remember all right," he says, nuzzling her cheek.

Alice rolls her eyes. "Thanks, guys," she calls out. "That gives me lots of material for a blog entry: Jasper fainted, James was clueless, and Riley had sex. Great!" She gives me a thumbs-up. "I've got it covered."

I know she'll write something good, but she has already told us that this will be the last of the freebies. When we go on the road, we'll be the ones writing the blog entries. I can still hardly believe that we'll be the opening act.

"Bottom line, Alice? I think we rocked it. I didn't faint. Riley didn't puke, and Alistair Randall pretty much implied that we got the job right after we left the stage. Even if he did make us wait a week before he made it official." I can't help the smug grin on my face. Everyone else had sounded great. But knowing that we were just as good, if not better, felt amazing.

Alice makes a few notes, then puts her iPad away as I sip my drink, sitting next to Girl #2 and trying not to pay attention as James's hand makes its way further up her skirt. I experience an odd moment of déjà vu, and find myself wishing that Edward could have been here tonight. Then I realize that I'm the only one without a date. Even Peter came with someone. Two someones, actually...

-ICL-

_February 11_

_I see Peter as soon as I arrive at Spin for the Valentine party, in spite of the massive crowd and the throbbing music. He's standing at the bar with one arm around the shoulders of a petite beauty, her long wavy hair framing an angelic face as she looks up adoringly at him. With his other hand, he pulls a gorgeous guy toward him and gives him a heated kiss. I stand in the entryway for a moment, floored by this unusual scene, but then he catches sight of me and waves me over. _

"_Jasper, this is Charlotte," he says, leaning down and kissing her forehead, "and this is our boyfriend Alec. The loves of my life." This is said with a caress along Alec's cheek. All three of them look at me with big smiles on their faces as I take in the way they stand so close together, the way they can't stop touching each other. "I've been telling them all about you and they wanted to meet you."_

"_Huh?" It's all I can manage after "the loves of my life" comment. _

_Charlotte laughs at my bewilderment. It's a lovely little laugh, sexy and low. "Stop teasing him, Peter, and explain." _

_Peter gives her a dazzling smile, then leans down and kisses her again. I recognize that smile. I've seen it many a night in the past few years as he came on to boys who had caught his eye. He's dazzled me with it too, so I understand its power very well._

"_What's the deal, Pete?" I ask as Alec hands me a frosty mug of Scotch ale – my favorite – and gives me his own version of a seductive smile. _

"_Yeah, Pete," Alec says in a low voice as he moves closer to my friend. "What's the deal?" He laughs, his eyes sparkling with affection. _

_I look on in amazement as Peter actually blushes._

"_The deal is," he begins, "that I met these two right here on New Year's Eve, and they invited me into their bed that very night." He flashes a wicked smile. "And I've hardly been out of it since then," he adds with a hungry glint in his eye._

"_Mmm," Charlotte purrs as she wraps her arms around him and rests her head against his chest. "That's because Peter has been helping me keep my New Year's resolution." _

_Alec looks on with a bemused grin, clearly confident that he'll get his share of whatever is going on here. _

"_And what was that?" I ask._

"_To find a man that Alec and I could love as much as we love each other," she says in a very matter-of-fact tone, as if it should be perfectly obvious. "Alec and I have been together for a while now, but we reached a point where I knew that something wasn't quite right between us. I just couldn't figure it out; I thought he was going to break up with me. _

"_He finally admitted that he'd been with men before he met me, but didn't know how I'd feel about that. I was so happy that he trusted me enough to tell me. And I was very excited when he said that he wanted to have a man in his life again – in our life together. Because the truth was, I wanted that too." _

_She looks at him affectionately for a moment before continuing. "We had seen Peter here before – it was last fall, right around the time we started talking about bringing someone into our bed – but we weren't ready yet. But after a few trials..."_

"_...And errors," Alec says with a sour look._

"_Definitely errors," Charlotte acknowledges, reaching out to pull him toward her. "The first guy we brought home was a disaster. He was a terrible kisser, and it turned out that he only wanted to bottom for Alec." _

_Alec rolls his eyes. "And he certainly didn't have any of Peter's, um, exceptional attributes." I know all about Peter's attributes. I'm surprised to feel a tiny twinge of jealousy as Alec speaks about him so knowingly. _

"_We met the second guy on line," Alec continues. "He claimed to be bisexual, but he was really just a straight guy who got off when someone was watching. Interesting, but that's not all we wanted. Thank goodness we met him at a hotel and not in our home."_

_Charlotte rubs his back sympathetically. "That's for sure. He didn't stop calling for weeks." She shudders. "After that, we had a long talk, and we kept coming back to how we'd both been attracted to Peter, but we hadn't seen him here since that first time."_

"_We came in here on New Year's Eve," Alec says. "At that point, we were trying to accept the fact that we had missed our chance with Peter. We were just looking for someone to take home for the night and..."_

"_...And there he was!" Charlotte says with excitement. "We could hardly believe our good fortune. And when he came home with us..." She sighs at the memory._

"_When he came home with us," Alec goes on, "he was everything we'd been fantasizing about. And so much more."_

_Peter grins. "They weren't the only ones who were fantasizing. I saw them on New Year's Eve and couldn't believe it when they came on to me. You know how it is, Jasper."_

_I certainly do. Peter has always been enthusiastically bisexual, always searching for the mythical couple that would meet all of his needs. And now he appears to have found them. _

"_I'm happy for you, Pete," I say. And I am. I take a long sip of beer as I gather my thoughts. But Peter has always been my most perceptive friend. _

_He leans toward me, speaking in a low voice. "He's out there, Jasper. Waiting for you, wondering when he'll meet you. Whoever he is," he says sympathetically. "If I can find the loves of my life, I know you can too." He pauses. "Maybe you already have, and you just need to be a little more, um, ambitious," he adds with a smile. "And you know I'm always ready to lend a hand... Or any other appendage you might need." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively._

_I roll my eyes. "Yeah, like that'll ever happen again," I mutter, not sure whether I'm referring to being ambitious, or to the idea of enjoying any of Peter's appendages, now that he's in love. I have a feeling that the night of acting out my fantasy about Edward might also have been Peter's parting gift as he moves forward in his own life._

_But I don't want to dampen the high spirits of their celebration. Peter obviously doesn't mind sharing, so I figure the least he can do is to spare me a dance with his new boyfriend. I put on my party face and ask Alec to dance..._

-ICL-

I can't help but smile at the sight of Peter with Charlotte and Alec, still very much caught up in their own little bubble. It's like they were made for each other.

James lifts his head from the smooth, sweet-smelling skin of Girl #1's neck. "Hey, Jasper, did you talk to Kate yet?"

"What? Oh yeah." I down the rest of my – what was it? – fourth or fifth drink and struggle to my feet.

"Have you seen Kate?" I wander over to the bar, where I had last seen Kate ten minutes ago. Or maybe an hour ago. The bartender hands me a frosty mug of the spectacular Scotch ale from the Powell Brew House with a perfect head of foam on top. I briefly contemplate the dubious wisdom of mixing beer with everything else I've been drinking, but this stuff is too good to refuse.

"In her office, I think," he replies, tipping his chin toward the back of the restaurant.

"Hey, thanks, man." I sip the delicious brew as I walk back through the restaurant, stopping frequently to respond to well-wishers. I'm gonna miss this place, if for nothing else but the formidable list of local beers on tap. And the regulars from the neighborhood, who demonstrate their appreciation and affection by showing up every Monday night.

I set the mug down on our table as Peter makes room for me to sit down beside him.

"I'll be right back," I tell him. "I have to see Kate for a minute." I'm hoping she'll write us our final check tonight so that we'll have a little cash in our pockets when we depart.

I can't stop smiling. I feel like I should pinch myself or something. In two short months we've already begun to have a local following and now we're heading out on tour. I don't care how forgettable most opening-act bands usually are; at least we get to play – and we get paid for it too.

I pause outside Kate's office. The door is slightly open, and I can hear her voice clearly as she talks with someone on her phone.

"I'm so glad you saved us the next two Mondays. We've been dying to get you in here for weeks, but I had to keep those boys on, you know?"

My hand wavers at the door, ready to knock, but when I hear "those boys," I freeze.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? There was a bit of blackmail involved at the hand of a pompous Brit and his wacko assistant." Her laugh is sharp and mean, not like the cascading sound of bells she usually displays for her customers. "Yes, they made all kinds of threats after I uploaded those videos. Solicitors, lawsuits, the whole nine yards. But I showed them!"

I feel a little dizzy as I keep eavesdropping. I know it's wrong, but I can't resist listening to the rest of the conversation.

"I told him I'd remove the stupid videos – after all, they had already served their purpose – and hire his little boyfriend's band if he'd lay off with the legal threats." She laughs again. "No, there wasn't any hanky-panky – at least not at the restaurant, as far as I know – and certainly not with me! Are you kidding? Although my assistant keeps insisting that something might have happened in the men's room after the video ended."

My face is beet red now. I don't know if it's more from embarrassment or from anger as I try to untangle all the layers of what I'm hearing. Who bribed who? What are we, exactly? Bargaining chips? Some sort of charity case? Who does she think she is? And who does he think he is, for that matter? In the back of my mind, I hear his harsh voice on the phone, and the lame pardon at the news conference. What the hell happened between those two events?

Fuck knocking. I push open the door and walk right in. Kate is pacing in front of her desk as she speaks. At first, she looks surprised to see me, but a neutral expression quickly masks her features. Her eyes never leave mine as she concludes her call.

"Listen, I have to go. I'll be here on Sunday when you come in to do the sound check and rehearsal." She pauses to listen for a moment. "Oh, that's no problem whatsoever. As I said, I'm thrilled to have you." She ends the call and gestures for me to have a seat on the sofa next to her desk. I shake my head and remain standing as she goes to sit down at her desk.

"What. Was. That?" I manage to spit out. I'd give anything to wipe the smirk off her face.

She just shakes her head. "Oh, Jasper, you're so naïve. Did you honestly think I would actually hire your bumbling little trio without a major incentive? And I do mean major. I would have been tied up with lawsuits for weeks – no, months, probably."

"But..." I'm dumbfounded.

"But that bitch of an assistant didn't want to do it. You should have heard them arguing. She's a shark, that one. I would love to have her working for me, even if we'd probably kill each other by the end of the first day. Fortunately, he seems to have a soft spot for you for some reason, and that's the spot I negotiated with."

"But..." I feel like an idiot, but I'm unable to form a complete sentence before she starts talking again.

"Yes, some of my customers do like you, I have to admit. I got lucky there, that's for sure. But how long do you think this charade could have gone on? Thank god for Alistair Randall. His timing was impeccable."

"But we were chosen to go on the tour," I finally manage to blurt out. "We auditioned. They chose us because we were good."

"Are you sure about that?"

Neither of us speaks for a moment, and the question hangs in the air. Then she shrugs, like it's no big deal to her either way. We're not her problem anymore.

Although Kate has told me that she'll rehire me to make salads after the tour ends, I know now that I could never work for this woman again, even if she were offering the last fucking job on earth. And I can't stand here any longer, letting her see how her words have utterly destroyed me, along with every bit of the confidence I've acquired during the past two months. I hate her.

"Give me what you owe us for tonight," I demand through clenched teeth.

She clicks through several screens on her computer, jots down a few figures, then picks up her checkbook and quickly fills out a check. She tosses it across the desk at me, with that mean little laugh again. "That's it. You're done. Your wages are included with the band's pay. I threw in a little bonus for your trouble. You're going to need it. Have a nice life, Jasper." She picks up her phone and scrolls through her contacts, then looks up at me when I make no move to leave. "What?"

I glare at her as I try to come up with something harsh to say, but I realize that I'd better get out of there before I puke. I pick up the check and stuff it in my pocket, then turn and leave. I barely make it to the men's room before I lose it, heaving until my stomach is empty. Then I just sit in the cubicle until Peter finally comes looking for me.

I hate it that I've been crying, and I don't want him to see me like this. When the door opens, I step over to the sink and splash water on my face. I can hardly stand to look at myself in the mirror. It'll be a relief not to have to come here anymore, to be continually reminded of my unremitting humiliation.

"Jasper? Are you okay? We were wondering what happened to you."

"I'll be fine," I manage to say. My voice is hoarse and I know I'm not fooling either one of us. "Too much to drink on an empty stomach, I guess. I'll be out in a minute."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"We're getting ready to leave. I'll send Alec and Charlotte home and wait for you."

"No, that's okay. You don't have to wait." I look at Peter's reflection in the mirror. "Thanks for being here tonight. I really like them. A lot." I try to smile, because I mean it. I really do.

"Thanks. They like you too." Peter's hand grips my shoulder and squeezes. I can tell that he's a little relieved.. He doesn't give a fuck what most of the world thinks about him, but I guess my opinion matters, and that means a lot to me.

"Pete, can I ask you something?" He's got his hand on the door when I realize that I care too. More than most people, I care about what Peter thinks.

"Sure."

"Are we really so bad?"

"What?" He tilts his head in confusion, looking at me as if I might be drunker than he thought. "What are you talking about?"

"Our music. Do we really suck?"

"What's the matter with you? You guys just keep getting better and better."

"Are you sure? Or are you just saying that because you're my friend?"

"Jasper, what the hell is going on?"

"I'm not the same naïve asshole I was a couple of hours ago."

He looks at me inquisitively but says nothing, then steps forward to wrap his arms around me in a hug. "I'm here for you, Jasper. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, thanks, Peter."

"So, are you ready to come out and say good-night to everyone? James is still asking about the check."

"Yeah, I got the fucking check. I'll be right out."

After making myself presentable, I follow him back into the restaurant. I reassure James that I'll cash Kate's check before our rehearsal tomorrow night and bring the cash with me.

"You're coming to dinner sometime before you leave, Jasper," Charlotte informs me as she hugs me good-bye. Then all three of them kiss me. If I didn't feel so miserable, I'm sure I would have enjoyed it a lot more.

I watch my friends as they depart into the chilly night, happy and excited about our prospects for the future. I don't say much, determined not to burst their bubble with the awful truth.

-ICL-

The last place I want to be right now is at home, alone with the burden of what I learned tonight, but I have nowhere else to go. If it weren't so late, I'd visit my mom, but I know she has to get up early for work in the morning. As I stand under the hot shower in my apartment, my head is still spinning with questions.

Was she telling the truth? Even if she was, I can't help but fixate on a more troubling question: Why doesn't Edward talk to me about all this shit, instead of leaving me to imagine the worst? He wanted the videos pulled and that's what he got. Why continue to involve us? Am I some charity case that he's taken on so that he can absolve his guilt?

I really thought we were getting better as a band, becoming more confident, even writing original music. Everything was good, and now it sucks. It feels like something has been stolen from me, and I'm pissed. I refuse to spoil it for Riley and James too. By the time I get out of the shower, I've decided that I'll never tell them anything about the deal that Kate worked out with Edward.

As for Edward, I just don't know what to think anymore. He kisses me; he runs away. He accuses me; he absolves me. Then he sets me up at Katerina's. Did he rig the game for the tour as well?

I pull on a T-shirt and some flannel sleep pants, then settle onto my bed. My hands reach for my laptop, a habit that was cultivated long before Edward came so briefly into my life. It's the new habit of going immediately to his website that is disturbing. In spite of everything I've learned tonight, I guess I'm still not ready to give up my daily fix quite yet.

I see that there's a new video and click on it to watch. The title says simply "Encore, March 3, Wellington Town Hall, New Zealand International Arts Festival."

I push out a sigh as the video begins and I watch him walk across the stage. Although Kate's horrible revelations are still ricocheting in my brain like wild gunfire, I still can't help but admire the elegant way he carries himself. At center stage, he pauses for a moment, smiling. Then he bows, acknowledging the applause that fills the concert hall.

His hair's a little longer than it was in December. It looks good on him. _He _looks good. He's wearing his usual formal black tie and tails, only his jacket had been removed, his shirt pulled out just a little. Without his jacket I can see how the tailored shirt fits him perfectly, showing off his upper body strength, the power in his arms, the energy in his fingers...

Instead of sitting down on the piano bench, he remains standing for a moment until the applause dies down.

"Thank you. It has been a pleasure to perform for you this evening in this magnificent concert hall." He pauses, pulls at his tie a little, and coughs. It's the first time I've ever seen Edward look even a little nervous on stage. "I would like to conclude the program tonight with something very new."

I can't take my eyes off him. I'm so screwed. Or is it screwed up? Screwed, screwed up – same difference.

"My late partner and manager, Seth Clearwater, often encouraged me to consider adding singing to my repertoire. I am grateful for his support and I'd like to think that he's here tonight in spirit as I offer you a new song that I was inspired to write after my most recent visit to the United States. The title is 'What If?'"

There is a smattering of polite applause as he turns and sits on the bench, then stretches his fingers and caresses the piano keys before he begins to play.

It starts slowly with a very sweet melody, and then Edward launches into the lyrics.

I am stunned. His voice is a low, rough growl. My mind whirls, trying to process the sound of his voice as he sings. It's Edward, and it's not. It's the voice that I heard on Christmas Eve, the polite and beautiful voice, yet it's so different that I have a hard time putting the two pieces, the two versions of Edward together. His voice. His music. His voice. I can't decide which is more beautiful.

The melody is there, floating in and out, up and down, sounding as if it's been filtered through sandpaper. He could be the reincarnation of Tom Waits, although I'm pretty sure he's not dead yet. Rough and smooth at the same time. So beautiful that I wish I could do more than hear it. I want to touch it, hold it. Experience everything that is his voice, that is Edward, all at once. I want it so badly it hurts.

Edward's rough tone seeps into my head, my bones. The perfection of his piano accompaniment is a smooth undertone, rising up and dancing with his voice, never struggling, completely in balance. Completely at peace.

It takes a while for me to focus on the lyrics, to realize that there is even more to hear in his words.

_...What if I had never let you go  
Would you be the one I want to know  
If I'd stayed  
If I'd tried  
If we could only turn back time  
But I guess we'll never know  
_

If I was stunned before, I'm completely overwhelmed now. My brain just stops. Stops. I can't think of anything but Edward, and the way the camera focuses on his face, his eyes closed, as if the sounds from his fingers, and his voice are everything to him in the moment. They're everything to me too. Because I think they're for me. I lean closer. Touch his face...

I think Edward is singing to me.

_Many roads to take  
Some to joy  
Some to heartache  
Anyone can lose their way  
And if I said that we could turn it back  
Right back to the start  
Would you take the chance and see it through?  
_

I suddenly realize that I'm leaning toward my screen, whispering, "Yes, dammit, yes." All the anger about Kate's betrayal, the questions about Edward's role, the doubts about our selection for the tour disappear from my mind, if only for a moment. There will be plenty of time for that later. For now, I just want this. I want the only part of Edward I can have – his music.

_Do you think how it would have been sometimes?  
Do you wish that I'd never left your side?_

"What about you, Edward? What do you wish?" I ask his image on the computer screen.

I wonder if I'll ever know.

* * *

**A/N:** Edward's version of "What If?" is slightly modified from the original, which was written by Steve Mac for _Christmas Carol: The Movie_ and first sung by Kate Winslet in a video about the movie in 2001.

Thanks to mkmmsm, crosunshine, BloodTearsAndGold, and faite-comme-moi, who sent suggestions for the Dust Covers' playlist.

And speaking of faite-comme-moi, I was remiss last month in not giving her credit for the idea about Jasper and the Dust Covers going on tour. Now if I could only get her to write the tour blogs for their website...

Finally, my thanks to all you wonderful readers and reviewers for your support of I Can Learn.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: For the past six months I've had this image of Jasper standing outside the tour bus, arms crossed, a frown on his face as he tapped the toe of his boot while waiting for me to get on the bus and produce this chapter. Soon another bus appeared, filled with all you wonderful readers and reviewers who have been on board since the one-shot first appeared, as well as new arrivals who've been adding follows and favorites during the past few months, all waiting for me to get this show on the road. So, without further ado, here is Chapter 9 at long last, with my gratitude for your patience.

This work of fanfiction is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Rated M for M/M slash.

* * *

_**The Times **_**(London): Cullen Returns Triumphant. **_Edward Cullen was spotted arriving at Heathrow Airport last night as he returned from __his final Canadian performances for his Duchy Originals/New Beginnings tour. Concluding the tour with yet another sold-out concert at the Grand Th__éâ__tre de Qu__é__bec in Quebec City, Cullen wowed audiences with his impeccable Parisian French, a program devoted to several modern Québécois composers, and a sneak preview of his upcoming performances for the Montreal Jazz Festival in June._

~ICL~

**April 9 ~ Evansville, Indiana**

_Road Rule #1: Touring makes everyone crazy. Ride the waves as best you can and remember, moods pass._

I sit with my guitar on the steps of the tour bus, which is parked near the theater where we'll be performing tonight. I'm strumming some chords that have been floating through my mind since we left Chicago ten days ago. I take a pencil and a crumpled piece of paper out of my shirt pocket and make a few notations. Some notes fall right into place, like the border pieces of a jigsaw puzzle – notes that I'm confident about, knowing they won't change. It's still not quite right, but it's getting closer to... something. Whatever it's supposed to be. I guess I'll know it when I hear it.

It's a rare moment of solitude in the raucous experience of life on the road with eleven other guys. I close my eyes and let my head fall back, my face turned up to the sunny, clear blue sky, enjoying the gentle warmth of the spring day.

The tranquility doesn't last long, however, as my stomach cramps slightly, and I am reminded that I violated not one, but two, rules of the road earlier today. Road Rule #2 (_Don't wander off; let someone know where you are_) still seems like something more appropriate for a group of unmanageable kindergartners on a field trip to the zoo, but I am beginning to understand the value of Road Rule #3 (_Fast food is poison_).

I spotted that Steak 'n Shake sign when we drove into town, and I just couldn't resist their bacon and cheese double steakburger with fries, not to mention a large chocolate malt. So I slipped away after we unloaded our equipment, and now I'm afraid I'm paying the price for my little indulgence.

I'm distracted from my thoughts by loud rumbling noises that emanate from the sole occupant of the bus at the moment, other than myself. The snoring, audible even out here on the steps, is coming from the man behind the road rules, our driver, Collin. He's six foot six and 250 pounds of solid muscle, with a deep voice and over twenty years of tour experience with newbies like us.

"Sleep whenever you can," he advises every time someone yawns. It's Road Rule #4, he says. And he is definitely a guy who practices what he preaches. Which is a good thing, I guess, because he's usually driving while most of us are asleep, our slumbering lives in his wide-awake hands.

The rules haven't stopped coming since we boarded the sixty-foot Prevost tour bus in Chicago on the last day of March. Road Rule #5 was definitely a surprise – _"Don't fuck anyone in the band; there are tons of people to fuck who are not in the band"_– because as far as I knew, I was the only gay man on the bus, and Collin certainly didn't know me well enough at the time to be firing that rule in my direction.

Turned out he had another target: Laurent Edison, the bass player for Chicagoland. Tall and lean, with smooth, cafe-au-lait skin, a cascade of dreadlocks halfway down his back, and dark, sparkling eyes – Laurent is beautiful. When he boarded the bus, Collin took one look at him and growled, "Remember Rule #5? It's still in effect, dumb ass."

The guy just laughed at him. My gaydar must have been on the blink that day because at first I just figured that Laurent must have been fooling around with a girl in his previous group. But apparently _his_ gaydar was in perfect working order, because he took one look at me and introduced himself immediately.

"Well, hello there, handsome. Where have you been all my life?"

"Hanging out at Spin, looking for you," I replied, pleased to discover that my flirting skills hadn't completely wasted away during the dry spell of the past few months. I could hardly contain my smile, unable to think about anything other than the fact that I would be sharing a tour bus with this gorgeous guy for the next six weeks.

I remember how Collin watched that first encounter as if he were a spectator at a tennis match: mouth agape, head swinging back and forth as we flirted. Now he makes us repeat Rule #5 every day. If he had a blackboard, I'm sure he would make us write it one hundred times or something.

Despite my pant-tightening introduction to Laurent, Rule #5 isn't really an issue for us. It's not because I'm not attracted to him—I _so_ am—it's just that I soon learned that Laurent isn't always the cocky stud he seems to be.

Collin tried to fill me in, describing how much of a dumb ass Laurent had been with his previous tour group. Apparently, he had a lot of fun testing his theories about how to turn a straight guy gay. Until the guy's girlfriend showed up and caught them _in flagrante delicto,_ and all hell broke loose.

I found out the rest of the story from Laurent himself, over a beer at the Bistro, the only gay bar in Bloomington, Illinois, after our first performance. It was obvious that talking about it wasn't easy, but he shared how Diego, his boyfriend of over five years, had dumped him right before the tour began.

"But what about... What was his name? On the other tour?" I asked.

"Oh, you mean Mike?" Laurent looked down at at his beer. "Diego knew all about it. I made some comment on the phone about how cute – and straight – Mike was, and Diego bet me that I couldn't get him to make out with me. We used to do stupid shit like that all the time. It's fun, or at least it used to be."

He drank down half his beer and then set the glass on the bar, a grimace on his face. "It's flat." He looked around. "This place has definitely seen better days. Let's go, or else Collin will think we're breaking one of his precious rules. Lord knows I broke most of them last time." He shook his head and I saw a fleeting smile as I finished my beer.

We walked back to the bus together in silence, and for the first time since we'd begun the tour, I found myself wanting less space rather than more. The bunks were hardly big enough for one person, but after the revealing conversation we'd just had, I found myself wishing I could share the space. While the bus tires hummed along the back roads of Illinois, I drifted off to sleep, wondering if my wish would come true. Entangling myself with someone lean and lanky and just a little vulnerable might be just what both of us needed.

Not that anything like this will be happening during the current tour, especially not with Laurent. He is still a wreck from losing Diego.

Which brings to mind Collin's favorite Road Rule: _Touring makes everyone crazy. Ride the waves as best you can and remember, moods pass_. Even after only ten days, I can understand more why this is Rule #1. We all get along better than I expected – so far – but Laurent is in mourning, Riley misses Monica, and Alistair gets grumpier every time Travis, the Whole Foods representative, reminds him that there's not enough room for anybody's special friend on the bus.

Collin never has to bug me about having a special friend. I spend more time cyberstalking than sneaking random hookups onto the bus. I try to be subtle about it by confining it to my bunk time. I don't want to risk the other guys finding out that I'm not actually watching porn in my bunk, like they usually are, but rather replaying Edward Cullen's latest performance videos instead.

Riley and James haven't made a big deal about our experience with Edward, for which I am grateful. I still haven't said anything to them about how we were the pawns in Kate's dealings with Edward. I've been thinking a lot about how much he had to do with our getting hired at Katerina's, not to mention the question of whether he pulled strings to get us invited on this tour. I guess I'm finally beginning to make my peace with it a little. I tell myself that I won't let Kate's deal with Edward bring me down. I try to look on the brighter side: Even if Edward did have something to do with us getting the Monday-night slot at Katerina's, I'm pretty sure he was not involved with the selection process for the tour. Instead, the gig at Katerina's gave us a chance to improve our skills and really coalesce as a group and as performers. I'm just grateful that the tryouts were over before my last meeting with Kate.

I shake off those thoughts and give up on finding the elusive melody when I get a text from Alice. It's the third one already today, as she reminds me yet again that we still haven't sent her a blog entry since we left Chicago.

At first, Alice was sweet about it, sending email messages with lots of hearts and smiley emoticons, reminding us that a blog post was due. Now, she texts almost hourly, each message sounding more irritated as the day goes on. The first two came before I even woke up today.

"_Where is the blog?" _

"_Please send the blog entry. NOW!" _

When I didn't hear from her again for several hours, I figured that she'd forgotten about us for another day. No such luck. This time, it's serious.

"_Why haven't I heard from any of you, you little shits?"_

Sighing, I climb into the bus and set my guitar on the driver's seat as I settle into the matching captain's chair next to it, looking around for inspiration. It's the most comfortable seat on the bus, and we're always arguing about whose turn it is to ride shotgun with Collin. Only two of his rules are about driving: _The driver chooses the music_ (Road Rule #6), and _whoever is riding shotgun does the navigation_ (#7). It's a relief to sit here, swiveling from side to side, while the bus is parked and quiet, except for the snoring. At least I don't have to listen to Collin's mix tape of disco hits from 1977. He's a great guy, but his taste in music leaves something to be desired.

I've been trying to come up with something to blog about for days. When I swivel past the video monitor for the back-up cameras, I realize that my blog topic is right in front of me. I take out my phone and set up the video camera app, then hold it up in front of me and start talking.

_It is so cool to be on the road and living in a tour bus. Our new home-away-from-home until the middle of May is a sixty-foot bus that once housed my guitar hero, Pat Metheny, during one of his tours. _

_The three of us Dust Covers share this unusual home with the four members of Chicagoland, an assistant who also serves as both security and back-up driver, two crew members, and the driver himself. A trailer containing all of our equipment is towed along behind the bus._

_This is the view from the front of the bus. Our driver, Collin, is the only one who's allowed to sit in the driver's seat but we all take turns navigating._

I stand up and turn around, looking down the long, narrow corridor toward the back of the bus. The curtain on the nearest bunk moves softly. Collin found a nifty little fan on eBay with a USB plug that attaches to the pull-down screen we each have in our bunks, and he bought one for everybody.

_That's Collin you hear in the background, snoring. I'll show you our luxurious accommodations in a moment, but first, here's the front room. As you can see, it has lots of sofa seats and a flat-screen TV. On the left, the sofa is a little shorter because this booth is tucked in next to it. Behind the booth is the galley, or what passes for a kitchen on this bu__s. __Don't blink, or you'll miss it._

I stand in the middle of the tiny kitchen area and focus the camera on the mini-fridge beneath the sink.

_Of course, we make use of it by stocking up on necessities—like beer. On the right side of the front room, there's a longer sofa, followed by two very cozy restrooms, each with a toilet, a tiny shower, and an even tinier sink. And by cozy, I mean minuscule._

I open the door of one of the bathrooms, hoping it is not too disgusting to be filmed, and am relieved to see that it looks fairly tidy, although it does not smell great. The chemical toilets can only handle so much, so as often as possible we try to use the rest rooms in the theaters where we play.

_We're lucky that we have two bathrooms. Most of these buses have only one. Can you imagine sharing this tiny bathroom with ten guys? No, wait – don't. It's too gross. _

That reminds me of Road Rule #8: _Everyone showers every day._ Laurent told me that this was a new one, but after enduring the funk of almost a dozen unwashed men for two days, I'm very grateful to Collin for putting his foot down on Day 3.

_Next we come to the bunk area. If you can believe it, there are twelve bunks in this bus._

I pan across the curtained bunks. There are six on each side of the bus, each closed off by a little curtain. Three up and three in the middle, with storage space at the bottom. The bunks are comfortable, but hardly luxurious. They're exactly six feet long, so that means I never really get to stretch out. It could be worse. Apparently, the bunks used to be even shorter in the "olden days," as Collin puts it.

Each bunk has a window, which is nice, with a snap-on cover to keep out the light. In addition to the tiny TV screen that folds down from the ceiling of each bunk, there's also a small shelf with outlets to recharge our various electronic devices. With headphones and the remote control, it's a warm cocoon for passing sleepless hours on the road.

I quietly pull open Collin's curtain and film him for a few moments, then move toward the back of the bus to continue my commentary. Collin's snoring stops for a moment as he rolls over on his side, then starts again.

_As you can imagine, with curtains instead of doors, we get a little better acquainted with each other than some guys might be comfortable with._ _Three of the guys snore – all I'm gonna say is that earplugs are my best friends._

It's not just the snoring and farting that are clearly audible; we can also hear each other talking on the phone, jerking off, or having full-on bunk sex when someone gets lucky. Sad to say, I haven't been one of the lucky ones.

_Beyond the bunks at the back of the bus is a bigger entertainment center – cleverly referred to as the back room – with its own flat-screen TV. Where the front room is somewhat civilized – so that we don't distract Collin while he's driving – the back room is where we can really let our hair down. Guitars come out, along with cases of beer, and we have a great time jamming as the road unrolls before us._

I sit down and slowly sweep the camera around the back room, then point it up the passageway toward the front.

_Living on a bus isn't for everybody. When the Whole Foods representative joins us and all twelve of us are on board, it's tight in here. Personal space is pretty much nonexistent. Every nook and cranny is used for storage space. But right now, I wouldn't trade places with anyone._

I email the video blog entry to Alice and await her judgment. It should give us a reprieve from her demands for a while. But I don't want to think about blogging now. My fingers twitch as I try – and fail, as usual – to resist the urge to open my laptop and scroll through the bookmarks for my favorite video. And there he is again, singing. Every time I watch it, I feel a sort of delirium as I try to figure out if Edward really was thinking of me when he wrote that song.

I must be insane. I spent a single amazing night with a piano virtuoso, and have been cyberstalking him ever since. And now I'm convinced that he's sending me secret messages in songs performed in front of hundreds of people on the other side of the planet? All I can do is shake my head and laugh.

"What are you doing in here, laughing all by yourself? And where the hell have you been?"

I look up to find Laurent standing in the passageway. Why would anyone want to break up with him? In addition to being gorgeous, he can be hilarious and fun, but the pain in his eyes when he talks about Diego is as clear as day. I can't help but wonder if that's what I look like when I think about Edward.

"Just contemplating life's little mysteries," I reply. "Why are you here? I thought it was time for the sound check."

"Exactly."

"What do you mean, 'exactly'?"

"Your boys sent me to find you. Because it's past time for the sound check, fool."

I close the laptop before he can see what's on the screen. He reaches down with both hands to pull me up, and I admire the shape of the muscles in his shoulders and arms as he does so, thinking that Diego is the fool, to cheat on Laurent and then dump him. Laurent isn't sure that he'll ever get over the break-up. I'm not so sure he will either, but I'm happy to have a new friend.

~ICL~

We weren't scheduled to play here in Evansville until Travis, the genius from Whole Foods, noticed that no one from the company had even thought about developing the market here. He figures that he'll earn some extra brownie points back in Austin by taking the initiative and doing a little advance work. So he booked the Victory Theater at the last minute. It was a great idea – in theory.

The sound check is the first disaster. When I walk in with Laurent, the huge, empty theater echoes with voices from the stage. It sounds like everyone is tuning their instruments and talking – or maybe shouting – at the same time, until Alistair grabs a mic.

"The sound check is for checking sounds. Could you just shut the fuck up while everyone else is checking?"

Ah yes, Road Rule #9. What would we do without Collin's wisdom to guide us every step of the way? That doesn't stop the chatter however.

"What the fuck was Travis thinking, booking this place?" I whisper to Laurent as we walk down the aisle toward the stage. "It must have a thousand seats."

"Nineteen hundred, to be exact," he replies. "Travis was very proudly pointing that out to Alistair when I left to look for you."

My jaw drops. In college towns like Bloomington and Champaign, we've been drawing audiences of about five hundred on a good night. This, on the other hand, is an enormous old-fashioned auditorium with a huge stage. The acoustics are less than stellar. It takes only one glance from James's face to Riley's to realize that they feel exactly the same as I do: completely overwhelmed.

Laurent and I both cringe as discordant noises blare from the speakers. Alistair looks like he's about to go ballistic. The two crew guys come out and fiddle with the cables for a while. We eventually complete the sound check, but the greasy-burger feeling in the pit of my stomach seems to be getting worse.

It doesn't help that everything that could possibly go wrong during our performance does. Riley misses his cue during the one song we play together with Chicagoland. The special fuzz pedal for Laurent's bass guitar goes missing, and Alistair can't find his favorite guitar pick. To make matters worse, the spotlights go off right in the middle of his solo.

To add insult to injury, only about seventy-five people show up, sitting scattered around the theater. We invite them to move down to the front so that the energy is concentrated in one place, but few of them accept our invitation. In that cavernous theater it feels like we're playing to an empty house.

Backstage, after this fiasco finally ends, Travis stands red-faced, embarrassed by his miscalculation and probably worried about keeping his job. He starts arguing with Alistair about what will and will not happen in Nashville next week. The rest of us pack up our instruments and equipment as quickly as possible, then take off into the night, like rats deserting a sinking ship.

Laurent and I stow our gear in the equipment trailer and make our way through the dark, empty streets to Someplace Else, one of Evansville's two gay bars. Ever since the Bistro in Bloomington, we have been searching out local gay venues in each new town, although it's hard not to be cynical about establishments outside of Chicago. We really do have an abundance of choices there.

Along the way I have become Laurent's default boyfriend. Depending on the day, Laurent is alternately moody and morose, or flamboyant and flirtatious. He loves to flirt, which probably didn't help with Diego, even though he says it was a game they liked to play. He never fails to snare the interest of any guy he chooses. However, without exception, every time I think he's about to take off with the latest object of his affection, he gives me a signal to intervene.

I never question his decision when he walks away from yet another good-looking guy. I know what it's like to want to move on, but not be quite ready – or willing or able – to let go. So I play the part when the need arises. On nights when the pickings are slim, we just have a good time drinking and dancing by ourselves. Then, when we show up back at the bus each night, Collin looks us over suspiciously and makes us recite Road Rule #5 again as the price of admission. We usually stand there like naughty children, holding hands and reciting the rule in unison, with me rolling my eyes while Laurent laughs at the absurdity of it all.

Tonight Laurent has been extremely moody, almost crying in his beer ever since we got here. It's not the first time I've spent an hour listening to him extol the virtues of his beloved Diego, but I wish he would get angry too, for all the pain he caused Laurent when he left him, and for whatever led up his departure.

I've matched him beer for beer, and eventually I have to go to the men's room. I'm not really paying attention to the guy who comes in behind me as I step up to the urinal and unzip my jeans.

"Want some help with that?"

Startled, I turn, my dick in my hand, to see a tall, beautiful boy looking hungrily at me as he takes a deep breath and carelessly rakes his fingers through the long black hair that falls into his eyes. I noticed him earlier, dancing with another guy. I caught him checking me out a few times, but from the way they were grinding against each other on the dance floor, the last thing I expect is for him to come on to me.

"Where's your boyfriend?" I ask as I turn back to empty my bladder.

"He's not my boyfriend," he insists. "We're just friends, I guess." He takes a step closer as I finish. I turn and stand facing him, still holding my dick. "I haven't seen you around here before."

"Just passing through."

A look of disappointment flashes across his face. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says in a soft voice as he walks toward me. "But you haven't answered my question."

I try to remember what his question was as I look down and watch his hand wrap around mine. It's warm, and strong, and I don't think about the fact that a stranger is touching my cock. I just think about how good it feels, and how long it's been since anyone touched me like this.

He follows my lead, stroke for stroke, as I get harder. He pushes the foreskin off the head and catches a single clear drop of pre-cum as it emerges from the slit. He brings his finger to his mouth and licks it, moaning appreciatively.

"May I?" he asks, and I grin at the formality of his request in this setting. He doesn't wait for my response. Instead, he drops to his knees and takes me into his mouth. I groan as his tongue flutters rapidly across the frenulum before he circles the head, then adds suction. I lean back against the wall and reach down to stroke his cheek with one hand while I push that wayward hair off his forehead with the other, the better to see his lips wrapped around my cock.

"That feels so good," I manage to say. He looks up at me, dark eyes shining. He reaches around and grabs my ass with both hands and pulls me toward him as his lips slide further down my dick until his nose is touching my belly. My toes curl as his suction increases, and I can't help but thrust my hips forward. "Is that okay?" I ask him.

"Mmm-hmm," he hums, the vibration of his voice serving only to add to the feeling that is building and building. I hold his head as I push slowly into his mouth, pulling back when he gags a little. But he holds me tighter, not letting me get away. I start fucking his mouth, trying not to go too deep, but I know I'm not going to last much longer.

"I'm gonna come," I warn him, ready to pull out if that's what he wants. I groan again as I imagine painting his face with my come, but he doesn't let go, and in a moment I'm filling his throat as he moans around me, then swallows.

He keeps sucking until I can't stand it anymore, and I shudder as I reluctantly withdraw from his mouth. He tucks me back into my jeans before standing up. I'm still leaning against the wall, with a huge smile on my face.

"Thanks, man. I really needed that."

"I could tell," he says with a grin as he washes his hands and rinses out his mouth.

Before I can say anything else, two guys come in and start talking about the drag show upstairs as they use the urinals. Normally, I'd offer to reciprocate, but the moment for that has passed. I wash and dry my hands, then turn toward him. "Listen, I gotta go. My bus is leaving soon." I reach out and touch his cheek, and he sighs. "If you're ever in Chicago, maybe I'll see you at Spin."

"Yeah, I've heard of it. Maybe someday." He turns and walks out of rest room. Now it's my turn to follow him as I go in search of Laurent. He looks like he's deep in conversation with the supposed non-boyfriend of the guy who just gave me the blowjob. The minute he sees me, he jumps up, says good-bye to the guy, and pulls me out of the club and into the street.

"Don't you think we could have asked the bartender to call us a cab before we left?" I complain. I'm exhausted, and I just want to climb into my bunk and crash on the blissful wave of endorphins that are now circulating freely in my bloodstream. The last thing I want to do is walk back to the bus.

"Oh don't be such a pussy," Laurent laughs, grabbing my hand, his mood now much improved. "It's only about three blocks from here, remember? C'mon, we're late. And you know what that means."

Grumbling, I follow along behind him. About a block before we get to the bus, we stop at a convenience store and pick up a couple of twelve-packs of beer. It's like a ritual offering – or maybe just the equivalent of a bus ticket. Anyone who delays the bus's departure for any reason had better show up with beer. After a week of Collin's threats to leave us behind if we don't comply, it's now a habit.

Collin is not usually in a hurry to take off after a concert. He understands that everyone needs to blow off a little steam after a good set. It's probably even more important after a bad set, like the one we played tonight. Alistair has already informed us that we'll have extra rehearsals when we get to Nashville. I know we'll need the practice if we want to make the most of the studio time we've been allotted.

Alistair is the only one in the bus besides Collin when we get back. Collin has him parked in the navigator's chair at the front of the bus and we can hear him all the way across the parking lot, yelling at Alistair about losing his temper with Travis. Something about not biting the hand that feeds you...

It's a good thing that the beer we brought back is ice cold, because Collin immediately grabs two bottles, twists off the tops, and gives one to Alistair, who scowls at us as we climb into the bus.

Collin doesn't even ask us to recite Rule #5 as he slides back into the driver's seat. "You have to pace yourself," he tells Alistair. "Touring makes everyone crazy. That's Rule #1, Alistair. You know this."

Alistair's grumbling gets louder when James returns to the bus with a startlingly pretty girl.

"What's his problem?" I ask Laurent as we carry the rest of the beer back to the galley.

"Alistair is just jealous," Laurent explains as he stows the rest of the beer. "He wanted his girlfriend to join us in Nashville, but Travis said no. She'll fly in for a couple of days in Myrtle Beach after Travis takes off, and he'll be fine after that."

I toss my jacket into my bunk and grab my guitar and laptop, then head toward the back of the bus. I settle back on the sofa, start plucking the strings and thinking about how fortunate Alistair is to even have someone to bring on tour with him. Not all of us are so lucky. Abruptly I stop strumming, my fingers poised above the next chord as I realize what I am thinking. Since when have I wanted to be part of a couple?

I sigh. I think I know the answer to that: since I met Edward Cullen.

Instead of lingering on that, I open the laptop and enter the notes I was playing this afternoon. Something is still missing. I pick up my guitar and tune it, then strum a few chords, trying to figure it out. The main melody has been in the back of my mind for a while now, begging to be played. I run through it again, then shake my head. It's still not quite right. I'm about to try again when I realize that I have an audience.

"You listening to this? I ask Laurent. He's leaning against his bunk, watching me as I play.

He nods, then moves into the back room to sit down beside me on the sofa. He stretches out a hand. "May I?" he asks.

I hand him the guitar. A minute later, he has modified a couple of the chords, and the bridge suddenly emerges.

"That's awesome!" I delete some of the chords I'd entered on my laptop and try to capture the perfection of what I'm hearing now before I forget it.

At the front of the bus Collin can be heard shouting out the door at the stragglers. "Get your asses on the bus, assholes. And everybody better be bringing some fucking beer." On nights like this, he sounds like a raging alcoholic, but he never drinks more than one beer before he drives.

The wisecracks roll in as Riley and the others climb on board and start stowing bottles in the mini-fridge. When the tour began, we quickly learned that there's also a huge cooler under one of the seats in the booth. Collin usually fills it with ice while we perform, and we refill it each day with water, sodas, and beer. On the road, hard liquor is just that: _hard_. Hard on the head and hard on the stomach. Not to mention hard on whoever's turn it is to clean the bathrooms.

According to Collin, Road Rule #10 is: _If you feel like shit all the time, drink less. You'll play better and feel better._ Of course, we didn't believe him at first. It wasn't until he started to enforce Rule #11 – _You puke, you mop_ – that we finally came to our senses. So now we stick to beer. And only after a show, not before. Because he's right, of course.

Riley wanders back to join us and starts texting with Monica. He's almost as cranky as Alistair sometimes, missing her, but she's doing a huge performance art installation at a gallery next week so she had to stay in Chicago. Before we left, I started wondering how faithful he would be on tour – after all, there are beautiful girls in every town – but he seems content to spend almost every free minute texting or phoning or Skyping with Monica.

Now if we could only get him to sleep in his bunk, all would be well in the world. Somehow he manages to roll out onto the floor of the bus almost every night, his heavy thud waking even the soundest of sleepers wearing the world's best earplugs. Or maybe it's his shocked cry, and Collin's laughter from the driver's seat, that startles us awake every time.

James has already disappeared into his bunk, shedding clothes as he goes. We can hear the girl giggling as he "works the Jamesian magic," which he explained to us with a straight face one night in Chicago. I don't understand what they see in him – he's not really that good-looking, and his sorry excuse for a ponytail is hardly an enticement – but he really is a chick magnet everywhere we go. It started back in Chicago when we were performing at Katerina's, and since the tour began, hardly a night goes by that he doesn't have a little female companionship on the road between performances. He fucks them and gives them bus fare to get home and then starts all over again in the next town.

We watch as Collin begins his nightly head count to make sure everyone's on the bus before we hit the road to Nashville, but he trips on a pair of jeans in the corridor and loses his shit. He picks up the jeans and yanks open the curtain on James's bunk. James is sprawled naked on his bed. The girl is naked too, and her mouth is busy working James over, but she still manages to let out a pretty noisy scream. The space seems impossibly small for sexual gymnastics, but somehow he always manages the contortions necessary to reach his happy ending.

"Rule #12," Collin growls as he throws the jeans at James. "Respect public space in the bus. Don't leave your shit lying around, you fuck."

James just grins as the rest of us burst out laughing. The girl tries to pull the curtain out of Collin's hand and yank it closed again, but he hangs onto it a moment longer.

"Nice boobs," he observes, before letting go of the curtain. The girl pulls it shut and barely misses a beat before we hear James moan as she gets back to work on him.

Laurent shakes his head at the whole scene. "That James sure does love the pussy, doesn't he?"

"Oh yeah." I roll my eyes, having grown a bit tired of listening to his nightly live-action porn.

As James gets louder, Laurent's head flops back against the sofa and it's as if he's a balloon with all the air leaking out. He shuts his eyes and takes several deep, shuddery breaths. A single tear runs down his cheek as the Ghost of Blowjobs Past comes back to haunt him.

"Dude." I don't know what else to say. I've never been in a long-term relationship. As awful as I feel about my one-sided infatuation with Edward Cullen, I can't imagine what it would be like to spend five years with someone and then see it end so badly. I turn back to my guitar and focus on the new chords for a few moments.

"Do you have any lyrics yet?" he asks after a few more deep sighs.

I show him the file of what I've written so far and he gets real quiet for a few minutes. I know he's thinking about Diego, and wishing that even the yearning kind of love I'm writing about was true for him too. I just sit there with him, listening to the sounds of the bus.

James is already close to coming, his rhythmic grunts sounding like a drum riff that is accelerating. I can't help but think of the sweet blowjob I enjoyed just an hour ago, and I wonder how long it will be until the next one.

Laurent passes the laptop back to me and I make a few minor changes to the lyrics before checking my email. As always, I can't resist clicking on Edward's website, but there's nothing new. His concert schedule for the rest of the year has been booked solid for months, and I think he'll be playing at almost every major festival on both sides of the Atlantic this summer. But he won't come anywhere near Chicago again until next Christmas.

"Are you finished with your email?" Laurent's voice is low and seductive in my ear. "Or are you just sitting here mooning over that gorgeous piano player?" He snatches my laptop before I can close it. "Ah, he's a pretty one, isn't he?"

I'm busted. "Yeah, he is." Laurent and I have talked a little about Edward. It was inevitable, after he caught me cyberstalking on the third day of the tour. But he's pretty cool about it.

He balances the laptop on his knees, and takes my hand in his. We sit quietly for a moment, watching that amazing video yet again. We both sigh when it ends.

"So, where is your darling boy these days?" he asks. He has that wistful look on his face that he gets when he's thinking about his own darling boy.

"He's not mine," I grumble.

"Oh really? Who else is singing love songs to you from the other side of the planet?"

"You don't know that for a fact."

Laurent sits back and laughs. "Oh Jasper, would it kill you to believe that he really was singing to you and just enjoy it?"

"It kills me either way."

"You didn't answer my other question: Where is he now?"

"He's back in London," I reply, still embarrassed to be caught cyberstalking once more.

"When do you think you'll you see him again?"

"Who knows?"

* * *

A/N: TruceOver, Kate, and faite-comme-moi have entered the beta/prereader Hall of Fame on this one, thanks to their patience, encouragement, and inspiration. TruceOver found the Tumblr site with the wonderful road rules that frame this chapter. Special thanks to Whitlock's Darlin for sending encouraging words (and virtual wine, chocolate, and chocolate wine) that were a supportive nudge toward finishing this challenging chapter. And thanks to all of you who take the time to read and support this story with your generous reviews.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Thank you, dear long-time readers, for your patience and support. And welcome to new readers who've climbed aboard the tour bus since Chapter 9 was posted. In your wonderful reviews – thank you very, very much! – many of you were curious about what's going on with Edward. I hope this chapter begins to give you some answers.

These chapters would never get posted without input from Kate and faite-comme-moi, and the unbelievable skill and friendship of my beta, TruceOver. Special thanks to momkuttler for your message of support and encouragement.

This work of fanfiction is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Rated M for M/M slash.

* * *

_**The Times **_**(London): Cullen Heads to U.S. **_Pianist Edward Cullen was spotted at Heathrow Airport yesterday in the company of his personal assistant, Rosalie Hale, who stated that he will be performing and recording new material for several weeks in the U.S., before returning to Europe for July's Festival d'Avignon in France..._

~ICL~

**May 12 ~ Charleston, South Carolina  
**

"Daddy!" My daughter's voice on the phone is a mixture of excitement and panic.

"Isa? Is everything all right? Where are you? Where's Angela?" I'm working hard to keep the panic out of my own voice. Rose and I have just checked into the Charleston Place Hotel, having said good-bye to Angela and Isa in the Atlanta airport this morning as they departed for Washington. They are supposed to be landing right about now.

I hear Isa asking where they are, and Angela tells her that they are arriving at the gate in Seattle. I breathe a sigh of relief. "What's going on?"

"Daddy, I lost Sonic," she says, now sounding grief-stricken.

"Sonic? Isn't he in your carry-on bag?" I look at Rose helplessly. She quickly crosses the sitting room to my bags and starts zipping them open.

"No, Daddy. I can't find him." I can tell that Isa's on the verge of tears. However, Sonic seems to disappear at least once during every journey, and he always shows up again sooner or later.

"Put Angela on please." She passes the phone to her nanny. "Angela? Any idea what happened to Sonic?"

"The last thing I remember is that Isa was putting him in a bag, but I don't remember which one."

Rose straightens up from rummaging through my luggage with a triumphant look on her face.

"Okay, he's here. Rose will Fed-Ex him to you. He should be there sometime tomorrow."

Rosalie is already on the room phone, making arrangements to send Sonic. Angela puts Isa back on the phone.

"We found him, sweetie," I tell her. "He'll be on the plane tonight and he'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Thank you, Daddy."

"I love you, Isa. Give my love to your sisters."

"I love you too, Daddy."

Isa is going to spend the next eight weeks with her half-sisters, Leah and Carlie. She's very excited about attending school with them for the last month of the school year. After that, Bella and Jacob have all kinds of activities planned – swimming lessons, arts and crafts at the Quileute Community Center, even camping at the Klahanie campground in the Olympic National Forest near Forks. It will be a radical change from the tour of British Commonwealth countries we completed last month, and the demanding formality of my parents' home in Hampstead Heath.

I miss her already. I hate to be apart from her for so long, but my schedule is not very child friendly for the next two months. Rose and I will spend the weekend in Charleston before flying to New York for a series of concerts and recording sessions. Then it's off to the Berkshires in mid-June for the Tanglewood Festival. This year I'll be soloing for the first time with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. That in itself is very exciting, but I'm over the moon about the meeting I'll have while I'm there, with two Chinese musicians I met in Beijing when I was a kid. Negotiations are almost complete for recording and touring together for a few months next year. All three of us will be at Tanglewood, so we'll have a chance to get started on our repertoire.

Rose no sooner finishes making arrangements for Sonic when the phone rings again. She says hello, then looks at me with a smirk on her face, and I understand immediately who is calling.

"How are you, Austin?" I hear Rosalie say as I take Sonic from her and set him on a table next to a large crystal vase filled with fragrant flowers. "Yes, we're here. Hold on a minute." With a mischievous look in her eye she passes the phone to me. "There's a gentleman caller on the line for you, Edward," she says in a singsong voice.

"Thank you, Rose." I roll my eyes as I take the phone from her hand. "Austin. It's good of you to call."

"Edward, I have tickets for a concert tonight at the Dock Street Theatre. It's the venue where you'll be playing next year. I thought you might want to have a look at it and get an idea of how it sounds," he informs me in his seductive southern accent. "We could have dinner first, if that's all right with you."

I can hear soft music playing in the background, and I imagine him in his office, not far from here. As a member of the Spoleto Festival's Board of Directors, Austin Marks has been a very congenial host ever since I first started traveling to Charleston. Maybe that's why I like it here so much. Getting to know him a little better during each visit has made spending time here even more pleasant. His courtly manners seem to be a throwback to an earlier era, enhanced by Charleston's gracious southern charm.

I've performed at the Festival several times, but never as a featured artist, and I am looking forward to that honor when the next Festival takes place. It was only during my trip here last year, a few months after Seth died, when Austin disclosed that he too was gay. I was astonished by his revelation almost as much as I was by the fact that I had not previously suspected it. In fact, I had argued vociferously with Rose about that very point not two weeks before our visit.

Since then I have felt awkward around him. It hadn't escape my notice that he didn't decide to share his orientation with me until after Seth died. We've always had a casual business- and arts-focused friendship, but after that I couldn't help wondering if everything he said or did was some sort of signal. Even now, I'm not sure how I feel about him.

Rose is hovering more than usual, her ear as close to mine as she can get, not wanting to miss a thing. Clearly she's hoping that this conversation will lead to something more than just business.

"Say yes," she whispers so loudly that I'm sure Austin must have heard her.

"Edward?"

I do like the way he says my name, but I still can't make up my mind. Should I think of this as a date? Is that what it is to Austin? Or do I have everything all wrong, and I'm on the verge of embarrassing him as well as myself? I decide to err on the side of caution and just play it by ear.

"That sounds great, Austin. Thank you for thinking of me."

"Excellent. I'll pick you up at six then."

I shake my head as I end the call. What have I just gotten myself into? I can't help but laugh at the brave new world I appear to be entering.

Rose looks confused. "You're laughing, Edward," she says, stating the obvious.

"Does it happen so rarely?" I ask her. "I know I haven't been very cheerful lately."

"That's an understatement," she mutters as she scrolls through the contacts on her phone to find Bella and Jacob Black's address in Washington.

"I was laughing because I have just been trying to decide if Austin is coming on to me, and it struck me funny that everything is so complicated these days."

"Well, duh," she replies, rolling her eyes.

"'Duh' what?" I ask.

"Of course he's coming on to you. He's had a major crush on you ever since the two of you met. I tried to tell you this last year, Edward, but you wouldn't listen."

"Oh god," I sigh. "I'm so out of practice with this sort of thing." I pause, pretending to think. "No, wait. I've never had any practice with this sort of thing. No wonder I'm clueless."

"Here's what you do," Rose says, beckoning me closer. "Relax. Enjoy yourself. Have a good time, and then see how it feels. Is it a feeling you'd like to have more often? Or do you just want to be friends?"

I wince. "Ouch."

"Yeah, ouch is right," she says. "But better 'ouch' than leaving him up in the air, only to break his heart when you finally meet the next Mr. Wonderful."

I feel a dark cloud descend over me. "Don't say that, Rose," I tell her through gritted teeth. "Never say that again."

"Oh god, Edward, I'm so sorry." Rosalie never apologizes, but this time she has really put her foot in it. She has clearly forgotten that "Mr. Wonderful" was one of the pet names I had for Seth.

Noticing my shift in mood, Rose tries again, this time her voice quiet and filled with sympathy. "There _will_ be another Mr. Wonderful for you, Edward. I just know it."

Easy for her to say. She can have any man she wants—and usually does. I try to smile, but it's a struggle.

I've been immersed in mourning Seth's death for so long that I should know it inside out by now, and nothing should surprise me. But just when I think I've finally learned to breathe again without him, something unexpected ambushes me, reminding me that my life will never be the same, and leaving me fighting for air, drowning, submerged in pain even deeper than before.

The idea that anyone could be "the next Mr. Wonderful" is beyond absurd.

~ICL~

Two hours later, Austin approaches me in the hotel lobby, looking as handsome as ever. He's as tall as I am, with sandy blond hair and light brown eyes over a welcoming smile filled with warmth. He's a bit of a dandy, tending to favor handmade shoes and bespoke suits that flatter his broad shoulders and narrow hips, everything designed to radiate wealth and confidence.

He seems quite pleased to see me, both of us hanging onto our handshake a little longer than usual. He takes me to 82 Queen, a very elegant restaurant, where the maitre d' greets him by name and seats us at a table in a quiet corner of the Library Room in the main building.

"Thank you for joining me, Edward. This is my favorite restaurant in Charleston these days, and I'm just delighted to have you here with me."

"Why is it your favorite?"

He laughs. "Well, aside from the fact that it has the best Low Country cuisine in South Carolina, I happen to own a ten-percent interest in this place. I haven't had a chance to dine here lately, so I'm grateful for an opportunity to see firsthand how my investment is doing."

I look around at the well-appointed room and the sophisticated diners filling it. "And what do you see so far?"

It's an innocent question, innocently asked, but it fans the glowing embers that are warming between us. Austin looks at me intently, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. "I see that I am exactly where I want to be right now," he says, reaching across the table and touching my hand. I don't move and he becomes a bit bolder. "Edward," he begins. "I want – "

"Austin," I say, patting his hand gently before moving mine to my lap, "I'm essentially a widower, admittedly a very young one, and... and I'm still trying to figure things out. But... but I want you to know that I value your friendship and..." I pause for a moment before blurting out the rest of my little speech. "And I want to spend more time with you while I'm here."

There. I've said it. Funny how I can play dozens of compositions by heart, but still end up sounding like a bumbling idiot after spending the last couple of hours thinking about what I wanted to say to Austin.

He moves his hand back to his side of the table with a bemused expression on his face. "Well, Edward, I'm not sure whether I've just been kicked to the curb, or given a promise of better days to come. Oh, be still my beating heart."

He says this last bit with an exaggerated southern accent and fluttering eyelashes, his hand rapidly patting his chest, and I can't help but laugh. It lightens the tone considerably, and we set about to enjoy our delicious dinner together without feeling any pressure about what might happen next.

What happens next is that he informs me that the theater is only a few blocks from the restaurant and suggests that we take advantage of the balmy spring weather by walking there. Having eaten too much, and having drunk more than my share of the delicious wine we had with our dinner, I am definitely in need of a little postprandial stroll.

What I'm not ready for is Austin taking my hand as we leave the restaurant and holding it firmly in his warm, masculine grip all the way to the theater. I resist the reflexive action of pulling away, and the shock wears off after the first few seconds. My brain is somehow clear enough to realize how good it feels to be hand in hand with a beautiful man once again.

Part of me remains aloof, however, with a flutter of concern about being out in public. While I have never been closeted about my sexual orientation, I haven't exactly flaunted it either. Seth and I were always very discreet.

It feels so different now, holding another man's hand, but in a good way. I tell myself that if Isa can learn to swim, then I can learn something too. I can learn to hold another man's hand tonight, without torturing myself over what it means for tomorrow.

Austin regales me with stories about many of the old buildings that we pass on our way to the theater. He seems to have had an ancestor present at every key moment in Charleston's history. He even claims that George Trenholm, the real-life model for _Gone with the Wind_'s Rhett Butler, was a distant relative of his.

"Must be where you get your charm," I observe.

"Why thank you, kind sir," he says with a huge grin on his face. He keeps it light and casual the rest of the way. My stomach is churning, and yet, at the same time, I am beginning to enjoy the giddy feeling of holding onto someone again.

The theater is a gem, a relic of a bygone era that has been faithfully preserved and restored, with all of the modern conveniences, including reportedly some of the best acoustics one can find in a theater of its size and age. I settle back in the comfortable private box seats Austin reserved for us and imagine myself performing on that stage. It's a tiny jewel box of a theater and the dimensions of the stage give it a cozy intimacy that will make my performance here even more special.

The lights flicker, signaling that the performance will begin soon. Austin takes my hand again. "Edward, I know you may not be ready for any of this," he begins in a low voice, "but I would like to spend more time with you too. You just have to say the word, and I'll meet you anywhere."

I sit there stunned and silent. Wasn't I clear enough before? I can't do this, not with Austin or anyone else. Maybe I can't learn after all.

A flash of disappointment at the lack of response from me shows on his face. "You don't have to say anything right now. I'd just like to know that you're at least interested and willing to meet me halfway." He pauses again, his fingers holding mine tightly as his other hand comes up to my cheek. "Like this."

He leans forward as he gently pulls my head toward him. The soft pressure of his mouth on mine is warm and willing. I'm still doubtful, still confused, but I don't resist. I close my eyes as his lips open and his tongue dances lightly across my lips.

I can't help comparing how different this genteel kiss is from the passion I knew with Seth, and I flash momentarily on an incident that occurred two years ago, right here in Charleston.

I had just finished my final performance at the Spoleto Festival and we'd been arguing. Something about investments, I think, but I can't really remember; it all seems so unimportant now. Afterward, there was as much intensity in our lovemaking as there had been in our argument.

My body reacts now as it always did. I feel myself getting hard, but it's not because of Austin's kiss. Still distracted, I try to put a little more effort into it, but the moment has passed, and I haven't fooled Austin for a second.

He pulls back, disappointment obvious in his expression. "No?" he asks gently.

"I'm sorry, Austin," I begin, but he puts a finger to my lips.

"If you ever need me, Edward, or – dare I hope – want me, I'm here for you, okay?"

All I can do is nod, grateful that the lights in the theater are finally going down and we can turn our attention away from this awkward moment. Austin takes a deep breath and smooths back his hair, then gives me a sad smile as he shifts in his seat. He begins to tell me a little about the band that's performing tonight, but then seems surprised to see three young men come out onto the stage with little fanfare. They are tuning up their instruments, their backs to the audience, when they're introduced by an invisible voice somewhere offstage. "Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in Charleston, live from the Windy City on their first tour, please welcome... the Dust Covers."

My jaw drops and my head swivels away from Austin.

There he is: Jasper Whitlock, the beautiful blue-eyed boy who haunts my dreams. I can't take my eyes off him. He laughs with his band mates as they tune their instruments a moment longer, then turns and says a quick "Hello, Charleston" before launching into their first song.

I look down with disbelief at the scruffy trio I first met five months – and five continents – ago. When I think back on that twenty-four hour period in Chicago, so many emotions come to the surface, filtered through the hazy memory of that night's intoxication, grief, and guilt. Now everything feels a little surreal as I contemplate Jasper's performance. He has a decent singing voice and holds his own on guitar. But it's not his performance – clearly improved since the last time I saw him – that surges through my memory. It's the image of the awkward, apologetic guy scrambling to pick up my bags, the impulsive, ouzo-influenced hand-holding, the incendiary kisses in the rest room... His lips on mine, on my body, on my cock...

I feel my face grow hot, and I'm grateful that the darkness in the box seats hides my blushes. A lot can happen in five months; the fact that Jasper is even on this stage proves that. I stare at him and try to imagine how Jasper himself might have changed. I wonder if he is still the sympathetic man who held me when I had a meltdown, the guy laughing with my daughter, his eyes full of joy when I accepted his dinner invitation, becoming bleak and empty when I made other plans...

And where did all those plans get me? Nowhere. I thought that was what I wanted at the time, but in retrospect? Not so much.

My attention returns to the concert as another song ends. Riley and James leave the stage and a single spotlight shines on a stool at center stage. Jasper sits with an acoustic guitar and adjusts the microphones. Then he looks out at the audience with a wide grin before he speaks. My heart is pounding as I remember how good I felt when that smile was directed at me.

Austin leans toward me, whispering. "Edward, aren't those the guys who made that bootleg video of you in Chicago?"

I nod once without looking at him. My eyes are riveted to the stage, and I just want to hear what Jasper is going to say.

"The Dust Covers got their start as a cover band, and this is one of the oldies we like to sing." He pauses. "For absent friends," he adds, then bends his head, concentrating carefully on the introductory chords as he launches into "I'm Easy."

_It's not my way to love you just when no one's looking  
It's not my way to take your hand if I'm not sure  
It's not my way to let you see what's going on inside of me  
When it's a love you won't be needing, you're not free  
_

_Please stop pulling at my sleeve if you're just playing  
If you won't take the things you make me want to give  
I never cared too much for games and this one's driving me insane  
You're not half as free to wander as you claim  
_

_But I'm easy  
I'm easy  
Give the word and I'll play your game  
So that's how it ought to be  
Because I'm easy..._

The notes fade, the final word in the song echoing, as a voice inside me screams in frustration about how my life is anything but easy. The audience is completely silent, enraptured by his heartfelt singing. Not a single cough, no distracted whispering or beeping phones. No one moves. Then it is as if there is a collective sigh before the audience bursts into applause.

I am flabbergasted by his performance. Did he sound this good in December? I can no longer remember, because this strong, confident musician has taken the place of the scruffy Santa I met back in Chicago. I'm distracted from my musings when his two band mates come back on stage.

I'm glad that Austin is completely absorbed in the performance. My mind is filled with confusion and desire as I watch Jasper set down his guitar and move toward the piano. He adjusts the bench, sits down, and then introduces a song he says he's been working on for a while. I try not to cringe, worrying that he's not going to sound all that great. Granted, he's pretty good on guitar, but..._._

Then the drummer taps out the beat and Jasper begins to sing and play, and within a minute, the audience on the main floor is on its feet, swaying and singing along with him as he pours his heart out in front of everyone. Including me.

_Dreams, that's where I have to go  
To see your beautiful face anymore.  
I stare at a picture of you and listen to the radio..._

_...If you ask me how I'm doin' I would say I'm doin' just fine  
I would lie and say that you're not on my mind  
But I go out and I sit down at a table set for two__  
And finally I'm forced to face the truth  
No matter what I say, I'm not over you_

_Not over you_

_Not over you_

_Not over you..._

Again, I am astonished at the change in his musicianship since I last saw him. In the whole band, to be honest. They are more polished and relaxed, and they're even writing and singing their own material now. And Jasper plays the piano too?

The bass-guitar player wraps it up with, "That's it, Charleston. You've been awesome! Drop by our web site, dustcovers dot com and say hello."

A second group of musicians comes on stage as the Dust Covers take their bows to an appreciative audience. I watch as Jasper moves swiftly, grabbing his guitars, and then stopping for a moment to hug one of the musicians. Perhaps I've finally lost my mind, but Jasper stands much too close to him, his body angled in, his lips at the man's ear. I feel something that I can't name burning inside me, and I gasp for air as they hug again before Jasper leaves the stage with the other two guys. I stare at the new group as they get organized and play a few bars to warm up.

"Oh, that's Chicagoland," Austin offers helpfully.

"What?"

"Chicagoland. That's the group I was telling you about. They're really good."

I smile wanly, my mind in turmoil, my body wanting to do nothing more than leap out of the box seat and go tearing backstage to see Jasper. But I can wait, I tell myself. He's not going anywhere. Austin had pointed out the tour bus on the way into the theater – one bus for both groups. So he won't be leaving until Chicagoland finishes their set and they pack up all the equipment.

I tell myself that I'm making the right call by waiting, giving Jasper time to cool off after his performance. Actually, I'm not sure what I'm going to say to him. I've thought about it, of course, more than I'd like to admit, but right here, right now, all of those carefully considered words are gone. I'm left with nothing but Jasper's voice in my head.

_Not over you…_

I sink back into my seat and try to enjoy the music. I have to admit, Chicagoland is very good. They have a lot of energy and they play well together. The bass player – the one that Jasper hugged on his way off stage – is beautiful. He has long dreads, dark eyes, and warm, golden-brown skin. My stomach does flips as I imagine them as a couple. Is it possible?

Of course it's possible.

An hour later, I am practically tearing the stuffing out of the empty seat next to me as the band wraps up a decent set.

"Austin, I'd like to have a word with the Dust Covers. Do you mind if we go backstage and say hello?" I try to be casual, but I know I am just totally failing at it.

Austin gives me a strange look. Having made the association between the band and the videos, he's probably wondering why I'd even sit through their performance without walking out, let alone want to talk with them without a solicitor present. But he is a consummate gentleman, so he takes my hand and we make our way downstairs.

I'm not sure how eager I am to greet Jasper while holding hands with another man, so I'm relieved when he lets go long enough to shake hands with an acquaintance in the lobby. Then he leads the way down the aisle on the main floor.

As we approach the stage, we can see members of Chicagoland breaking down the equipment. Jasper's band mates wander out to lend a hand, along with a couple other guys. I can't wait any longer.

"Where's Jasper?" I call out. Everyone stops what they're doing, turning to look at us.

"Edward?" It's the bass-guitar player. "Um, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Riley Biers, and this is James Hunter. You sat in with us at Katerina's in Chicago."

"Of course I remember you. It's nice to see you again, Riley." I nod distractedly at James, who stands near the drums with his mouth open in surprise.

"Who's this?" Chicagoland's lead singer asks.

"Alistair, this is Edward Cullen."

"_The_ Edward Cullen?" This fellow Alistair looks at me in surprise. The man with the dreads is right behind him, with a big smile on his face.

"Riley, is Jasper backstage?" I have no patience left, and my manners are forgotten now. I've waited quite long enough.

"Who's Jasper?" Austin asks, a bewildered look on his face.

The one called Alistair steps forward, extending his hand to shake mine.

"I'm sorry, Edward," he says after he introduces himself, "but Jasper's gone."

* * *

A/N: Lyrics are from Keith Carradine's "I'm Easy," and Gavin McGraw's "Not Over You."

Thanks to everyone who is still reading this!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** First, my apologies for yet another long gap between chapters. I am grateful to each and every one of you for reading and reviewing and for being honest about how frustrating it is to wait so long. Your wonderful, thoughtful reviews and continuing support mean more to me than you can ever know. (By the way, bethi13212, the pronunciation of Isa's name rhymes with Lisa. Thanks for asking!)

I just got back from a trip to Chicago, where I made a pilgrimage to see the gorgeous Villa D'Citta (the guest house where Edward stays with his family and entourage when he's in Chicago) and Katerina's. The food and live music there were even better than I imagined when I researched it for Chapter 1. I had a silly grin on my face all evening, as I envisioned Edward at the piano and the Dust Covers nearby.

This chapter has been through umpteen drafts and finally reached postable status due in no small part to the patience and inspiration of my wonderful beta, TruceOver. (She first started editing an early draft last fall while waiting for the premiere of BD2 at Camp BD in L.A.!) Kate and faite-comme-moi also decreased my doubts and misgivings with their careful prereading, and faite-comme-moi offered wonderful suggestions for the details of the Dust Covers' experience in Nashville. And deenerneener gave me the supportive kick in the ass that I always seem to need to get through my pre-posting anxiety.

This work of fanfiction is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. It's usually rated M for M/M slash, but in this chapter it's M/M/M.

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**The Times (London): Cullen Signs on for China Collab. **___Recalling his first visit to China at age ten, pianist Edward Cullen announced today at the Tanglewood Music Festival in western Massachusetts that he will reunite with several prominent Chinese musicians for an Asian tour next year..._

_~ICL~_

**June 23 ~ Chicago **

I stare up at the crack in the ceiling of my bedroom, trying to remember if there is any reason to get out of bed today. After deciding that the answer is no, I roll onto my side, wishing I could escape into sleep once again, but my head is pounding. I've already taken something for the hangover, so maybe this is caffeine withdrawal.

I'm just hoping I still have enough coffee and alcohol in the apartment so that I don't have to go outside at all today. The window shades aren't quite dark enough to hide the fact that it's another sunny day – a steamy one too, no doubt. It's already hot in here, and the air conditioner is struggling to keep up.

I succumb to the siren song of caffeine and get up to make some instant coffee. I'm tempted to just snort it, hoping for faster relief, but the image of spiky coffee granules going up my nose just grosses me out.

I toss in some ice cubes and the last of the milk, relieved to discover that it hasn't gone bad yet, even though the expiration date was two days ago. Taking a couple of sips, I carry it back into the bedroom, then set it on the bedside table and climb back into bed. I close my eyes and am grateful when sleep pulls me under once more.

~ICL~

It's late afternoon when I open my eyes again. An echo of the earlier headache taps against my forehead in time with my heartbeat. I sit up and drain off the rest of the coffee, noticing as I do that my stomach has settled a little. This is a good thing, just in time to start drinking again.

I'm startled by the buzzing of my phone, set on vibrate these past few weeks, the better to ignore all the pity-texts and calls. Sighing, I pick it up to delete the latest batch.

RILEY: _Why aren't you here? _

Here? That would be Monica's place, I guess. I forgot all about the practice he scheduled. Again. We haven't had a gig in weeks. It all seems kind of pointless now.

_Erase?_ Yes.

MOM: _When are you going to pick up your mail?_

I have never understood why my mother feels compelled to keep every piece of junk mail that arrives in her mailbox with my name on it, but she does. She's been kind enough to let me use her address since I was an undergrad, when I moved around a lot, but it means that I have to sort through all the ads and alumni crap that she refuses to throw away until I've had a look at it.

_Erase?_ Yes.

LAURENT: _Put on your dancing shoes and meet me at Spin tonight._

I feel a faint prickle of interest, but the time stamp shows 10 pm last night. Too late.

_Erase? _Yes.

There's another message from Laurent, sent just after midnight.

LAURENT: _Come on, man. __It happened. Come out with me and I'll help you forget about it._

Help me forget? As much as I like Laurent, I think he may be promising the impossible. The phone buzzes again as I delete the second message.

PETER: _Get your head out of your fine ass, Whitlock, and get over here. Dinner at 7, then Pride Fest, remember?_

I sigh. I can't believe I agreed to this in a weaker moment several weeks ago, back when I hadn't dug myself quite so deeply into the pit of despair. Since the tour ended, I've managed to avoid the happy little trio at Chateau Three-Way, as Peter so cheerfully refers to the apartment he now shares with Alec and Charlotte. The last thing I need is to see people madly in love with each other. I'm about to decline when another message comes in.

PETER: _No, I won't take no for an answer. Get dressed. See you in an hour._

He knows me too well. I huff out something that sounds more like a bark than a laugh, then look around the bedroom, wondering if I have any clean clothes. The last time I did laundry was...

I can't remember, but I think it might have been when we were in Myrtle Beach, right before we left for...

I don't want to think about Charleston again. I pick up the remote and turn on the TV to catch the weather report, but not even the cute weather guy can bring me out of my funk as he tells Greater Chicagoland that it's still in the low 90s, with thunderstorms predicted for later tonight. Maybe that would help with the drought that's been baking the Midwest – and get me out of going to Pride Fest at the same time – but I doubt it. After all, getting wet has never been much of an issue for gay men.

I keep thinking that I'll snap out of this. But every time I start to get my shit together – like when I make it to practice for once, or manage to send out another job application – I start questioning why I'm even bothering, and quickly find myself circling the drain, feeling like fate already has it in for me.

It's a feeling I haven't been able to shake since I returned to Chicago. I felt so great when I left the stage that night after our last set in Charleston. The tour had ended well, and it was obvious that our fan base was growing. We had an amazing week in Nashville too. It was the first time any of us had ever been in a recording studio, and there we were, in the Quonset Hut, where Patsy Cline recorded "Crazy," and Brenda Lee did "I'm Sorry." We got to record the song I wrote, and Riley's colonoscopy song, doing it old-school style with all of us performing at the same time instead of laying down each track separately. The engineers rolled their eyes a few times at our naïveté, but they were really patient with us, and their suggestions made our music soar.

It was the best week of my life... until the texts started coming.

~ICL~

Thunderclouds are visible over the lake as I make my way to a classic apartment building in the heart of Boystown. I hold a bottle of wine in one hand as I press the bell at the entrance, then try to smooth down the front of my shirt. It's a "Chicago Pride" T-shirt from a year or two ago, still in pretty good shape except for all the wrinkles from being balled up at the bottom of a drawer since last year's Pride Fest. At least my jeans don't look like I slept in them, even though I probably have on more than one occasion recently.

"Get your ass up here, Whitlock." Peter sounds tinny through the speaker. We haven't talked much since I got back from the tour, but it's still the friendly voice I remember.

He's standing in the hallway when I reach his floor, wearing board shorts low on his hips and a Hawaiian-print shirt that's completely unbuttoned. I nearly gasp. He always was gorgeous, what with those muscular arms, washboard abs, slim hips, and that tantalizing pale-blond happy trail. If anything, he's in better shape than ever. He grins as he catches me staring. "It's about time you showed up here again."

"You're looking good, Peter," I manage to say. "Great, I mean. You always looked good."

"Thanks," he says, and he wraps his arms around me as soon as I'm within hugging range. I close my eyes and sigh, resting my head on his shoulder, basking in the strength and warmth of his body against mine as the scent of his skin – and whatever spices he's been cooking with – invades my senses. "I feel great," he adds. "I've been having some spectacular workouts lately."

I'm pretty sure he isn't talking about gym time. "I'll bet," I say ruefully, not for the first time missing our casual, exuberant sex, and wondering if there might be something wrong with me that I was never the one who left him glowing like this.

After a moment he gently kisses my cheek. "You, on the other hand, look like shit."

I can't disagree with him. Despite all the sleeping I've been doing, there are still dark circles under my eyes, and I've lost some weight. Add to that my shaggy hair – long overdue for a haircut – and scruff that's not at all attractive, and I know Peter is absolutely right. I'm definitely not the man I was the first time I came for dinner back in March, just before the tour began.

"I'm glad you're here, bro," he murmurs, just as another pair of arms wrap around me.

"Jasper," Alec says in his low, sexy voice, and I feel tingles on my neck where he kisses me, and goosebumps on my skin at the way he says my name. It's the same reaction I had when I was here before, listening to his advice about how to live in close quarters with a bunch of straight guys, like he did when he had a dorm room at Northwestern. Turns out his suggestions weren't all that different from Collin's road rules, but it was the deep, warm rumble of his voice that I paid more attention to. At the time, it made me think of liquid caramel, and I remember wondering if he tasted warm and sweet too...

I try to remember the last time anybody besides my mom hugged me, and I decide that I could happily stand in the hall indefinitely in the warm, welcoming embrace of these two beautiful boys. My stomach disagrees however. When it starts growling, they both laugh, and Alec takes my hand to lead me into the apartment.

Peter veers off into the kitchen, and Alec continues into the living room, then turns and hugs me again. "We've missed you," he says softly. He gives me a long, lingering kiss that simultaneously makes me hard and confuses the hell out of me.

"How's Charlotte?" I ask, still bewildered when the kiss ends. Peter comes in with a pitcher of homemade sangria and takes three glasses from a beautiful wooden Arts and Crafts cabinet near the sofa. I'm surprised when both of them laugh.

"Oh, she's all right, I guess," Peter says nonchalantly, shrugging with mock indifference. Alec laughs again, and I look at him questioningly.

"She's in Seattle," he finally explains. "She'll be back on Monday, if all goes well."

"That's nice," I say, a little distracted as it suddenly dawns on me that it's just the three of us here tonight.

"_Very_ nice." Alec pulls me down on the sofa next to him. Like Peter, he's casually dressed, wearing only a T-shirt and shorts. "Very, very nice."

He doesn't let go of my hand. His thumb draws lazy circles in my palm, and it's as if there's an electric current running directly to my groin. I watch him, mesmerized, as I begin to relax a little, relieved to get out of my head for a while. I start to smile, thinking that maybe there's something to be said for socializing after all, when I hear the splash of ice and sangria as Peter fills our glasses, sets the pitcher on the coffee table, and sits down next to me.

"You know, Jasper, we've been worried about you," Peter says as he passes a glass to me. We haven't talked much since I came back to Chicago, communicating mostly through text messages regarding our Pride Fest plans. "Ever since Riley texted me – "

"He did?" My stomach churns at the memory of Riley's text.

"Yeah. He told me something happened in Charleston at the end of the tour, and ever since then you've been really out of it."

"He did?" I repeat, looking away as I struggle to push aside thoughts of that terrible day. I take another swig of the sangria. It's ice cold and it tastes wonderful, but the joint that Alec lights up and offers to me is even better. It's good stuff, and we pass it around in silence for a few minutes. I lean back against the sofa and close my eyes.

"Jasper, what happened?" Peter asks softly.

I feel a single tear escape and roll down my cheek. A finger – I don't know if it's Peter's or Alec's – brushes it away and tenderly strokes my face. I take a deep, shuddery breath as I try to find a way to describe what happened without bawling like a baby.

"Um..." Another breath, released as a long sigh. Peter starts rubbing a spot at the base of my neck as Alec squeezes my hand. "Well," I finally begin, "you know how I planned that big surprise party for my mom? Her birthday was on Mother's Day this year, the day after the tour ended." I open my eyes for a moment and they both nod.

"After we finished our set, I took the last flight out of Charleston, and I got to my mom's apartment just as all of her friends were gathering in the lobby of her building. Her neighbor had pretended to invite her to go out for brunch, so she was all dressed up when we arrived. It was wonderful."

Another tear escapes and I struggle for control before continuing.

"Of course, I was disappointed that I had to miss the ride back to Chicago with the guys, but seeing my mom's face when I walked into her apartment made it totally worth it. Everyone enjoyed hearing stories about the road trip – the PG version, of course – and I loved how my mom's eyes lit up when I talked about our recording session in Nashville, and what it was like to meet new fans in each city."

I stop again, then take a big swallow of sangria. It suddenly tastes off, not nearly as sweet. "It was a really great day. Until I got those texts, that is."

_Laurent's was first. I was never more shocked in my life as when I opened his message and found a photo of Edward, looking up toward the camera in frustration, a tall, handsome man right behind him with a confused look on his face. A second photo caught Edward looking downcast as he turned away._

_Where were they taken? I'd done enough stalking of Edward on line to know that I didn't recognize the photos. __At first I couldn't understand why Laurent was sending me pictures of Edward. But then Riley's text arrived._

_RILEY: Call me ASAP._

_I was laughing at something my mother had said as I made the call, wondering what was so urgent. It didn't take long for the laughter to stop._

"_Jasper? Um... I'm glad you called."_

"_Hey Riley, what's going on? Everything okay on the bus?" _

_I could hear a guitar and voices in the background, and the steady hum of tires on blacktop that had lulled me to sleep many a night._

"_Jasper, something happened after you left yesterday."_

"_Did you finally get laid?" I asked jokingly._

_Riley's resolve to not sleep around on the road wavered a lot during the last two weeks of the tour. Monica had predicted that something would happen; it was inevitable, she said, and she was pretty cool about it. But Riley had been determined to prove her wrong._

"_No such luck, Jasper. Nothing like that night in Nashville." We both chuckled at the recollection of the raucous party after our performance when he almost caved. Then he cleared his throat. "It's... You're gonna..." He sounded like he was trying to cough up a hairball or something. _

"_C'mon, Ri, quit beating around the bush. Spit it out."_

"_EdwardCullenwasinCharlestonandhecamelookingforyou. " He spit it out, all right. All I understood was "Edward Cullen" and I was on full alert._

"_Say it again, Riley. Slowly."_

"_Edward Cullen was in the audience in Charleston, and he came down to the stage after the concert, asking for you."_

"_What?" I must have shouted, because my mom stuck her head into her bedroom, where I'd gone to make the call, thinking it would be quieter away from the party. I shook my head and waved her away, trying not to show how devastated I was, now that I understood where Laurent's photos came from._

_Riley started to repeat himself, but I interrupted him. "No, I heard you. I just can't believe it." _

"_I'm sorry, but it's true. He was with a really hot guy, but he was asking for you. Alistair kind of fell all over himself, explaining where you were."_

_I just stood there, looking out through the bedroom door at all the happy people surrounding my mother, while I tried to make sense of what I was hearing. _

"_Jasper? Are you still there?"Riley asked._

"_Yeah... So what happened after that?" _

"_Well, Edward got this real disappointed look on his face, and he just thanked us and turned away. And then... um... the guy with him took his hand and led him out of the theater."_

"_Took his hand?" I had to swallow past the lump in my throat. "That's it? He didn't say anything else?"_

"_Nope. Sorry." _

"_Why didn't you call me while he was there?"_

"_We were all kind of in a state of shock, Jasper. Edward Cullen was the last person on earth we expected to see in Charleston. And he just came and went so fast that nobody had time to even think of calling you. I'm so sorry."_

"_No, it's okay. I'm the one in shock now; I would have been then too. But... but what took you so long to tell me about this?"_

"_I just didn't want to spoil your surprise for your mom." He paused. "Plus we all got blitzed after the show and I just woke up a little while ago," he admitted._

Edward Cullen. In the audience, and then looking for me. For _me_.

I hadn't shed a tear since my father left when I was five years old, but on that day, I locked myself in my mother's bathroom and cried. Now, more tears fall, and I brush them away roughly as I tell Peter and Alec about Riley's call.

"Oh, man," Peter groans. "He was right there? In the same building? That really sucks."

"Yeah, but I just don't get it," I continue. "I don't know why he came looking for me when he was with another man. And what really pisses me off is what's happened since then."

"Anger is good," Peter observes wryly as he puts an arm around my shoulders.

Alec rolls his eyes at Peter's psychobabble. "What happened next?" he asks.

"Absolutely nothing," I grumble. "I mean, to show up out of the blue like that after months of silence? Not to mention with another guy. And then nothing? He must have heard about the web site. Riley always mentions it at the end of every set. Would it have killed him to send a message or... something?"

I pause as my cheeks redden with anger and embarrassment. It's been six weeks already, and I haven't handled it very well.

I should have known better than to hope, but after Edward's surprise appearance, I was so sure that he would do something else. At first I texted Alice every day, asking if there had been any messages for me through the web site. After a few days of this, she threatened to change her phone number. She was hurt that I thought she was holding out on me, and reminded me firmly that any activity on the web site would be just as visible to me as it was to her.

I suppose I should be encouraged by what is happening on the blog, instead of moping about what isn't. Our music is still selling, modestly to be sure, but it has been well received by our small yet loyal audience. It was mostly local at first, but it has expanded beyond Chicago since the tour.

Hell, for all I know, it consists entirely of the girls James slept with.

We've played a few gigs since returning to Chicago, but new bookings are few and far between. Now I tend to cancel practice rather than make an effort to be there. I know this can't go on much longer. At first everyone was full of sympathy, but after six weeks, their sentiments have begun to shift from "aw, poor baby" to "get over it already." I've never been so depressed in my entire life, and I don't know if I'll ever get over it. I just keep thinking that after enough time passes, I'll wake up and feel better. But then another day goes by and I end up feeling worse.

Peter had caught me off guard with his invitation, reminding me that it's been a tradition of ours to go out together for at least one night of Pride Fest every year. It would have been rude to refuse – not ditching-practice rude, but a worse kind of low – and at the time I just said yes, thinking that I could get out of it later. Now I'm feeling a little better, having told my pathetic story to sympathetic listeners, but there's still a hollow feeling in my heart that just won't quit...

I'm pulled out of my ruminations by the sound of a match as Peter lights another joint and passes it to me. "Well, he says, "regardless of what Edward Cullen does or doesn't do, you need to rejoin the land of the living."

"So we decided to stage an intervention," Alec murmurs in a low voice close to my ear. "I hope you're not too hungry yet, Jasper." I shiver as he takes the lobe into his mouth and sucks on it gently. "You remember last time, when we said we wanted to have you back for dinner? Well, bon appétit, baby, 'cause I'm starving."

With that, he begins nibbling on my neck, then sucking the skin until I'm sure I must be marked with a trail of tiny bruises as he pushes up my T-shirt and continues down my chest. I sit awkwardly, looking at Peter out of the corner of my eye, my body clearly ready for more, while my brain tries to make sense of what's happening here. He watches us carefully, and it's obvious that he's turned on, but there is something else in Peter's expression – concern. That in itself – knowing that I'm with someone who cares about me on some level – makes it all right.

What's left of the joint is still clenched in my fingers, forgotten in this unexpected turn of events. Peter takes it and puts it out in an ashtray. Then he leans in and whispers into my ear. "Is this okay with you?" His lips brush against my earlobe, and it's both comforting and incredibly hot.

I swallow, then nod. "What about Charlotte?" I manage to blurt out before my head falls back onto the sofa.

"Charlotte's cool," Peter says as he gestures for me to take off my shirt. I'm not sure I want Alec to stop what he's doing but I obey. "In fact, she's the one who suggested it. She thought you might be more comfortable with just the two of us. If she were here, she'd probably be filming this."

"And getting herself off on it too," Alec says drily, before taking my shirt from my hand, tossing it on the floor, and turning his attention back to my body.

"That's for sure." Peter laughs. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time."

This revelation startles me. "You mean you've shared other guys before?" I'm surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy.

"Oh no," Peter reassures me with a wicked grin. "It was just Alec and me, fucking each other while she filmed us." He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting quickly to the flat-screen TV across from the sofa. "We could watch it if you need a little inspiration." His hand slides into my jeans, and he laughs smugly as he feels my erection straining against my boxers. "In any case," he says as he bends closer, his hot breath in my ear, "you are the first, Jasper."

Alec picks up the remote control, then hesitates before tossing it aside as he watches Peter's hand in my jeans. "We can watch videos some other time," he says in that caramel-coated voice of his. "Let's just keep it real."

He gestures toward the mirror that hangs above the TV, angled perfectly for me to watch and feel Peter as he continues to stroke me. Alec joins in as I sit there, stunned, just feeling their hands on me, warm and firm. After a few moments, they reach across me to caress each other, then kiss deeply. I watch their lips, their tongues, thinking that I've never seen anything so fucking sexy in my entire life.

I can't take it any more. My cock is already so hard I think it might burst through my clothes all on its own. I grope for the button and zipper on my jeans, not wanting to waste any more time, lifting my ass off the sofa and grinning for the first time in weeks as I feel their hands pulling down my jeans and boxers. I can't help laughing as they struggle to untie my sneakers, both ending up with the laces in knots, until they finally free my lower body from clothing, shoes, and, thanks to those joints, all inhibitions. Peter and Alec quickly cast off their shirts and shorts, not having bothered with underwear this evening.

My behavior has never been all that angelic, but a threesome is something new for me, so I'm a little dumbfounded at the sight of the trio of hard cocks pointed skyward, clear liquid shining at the slits of all three. Alec and I take a moment to explore. His cock is shorter than mine, but much thicker.

"Oh Jasper," Alec says as he reaches out to touch the pre-cum at the tip of my cock, "it's just as gorgeous as Peter said it would be."

"You guys talk about me?" I ask in confusion.

"Oh yeah," Alec responds. "It turns me on when Peter talks about naughty things you could do to me, and a few things you might be willing to let me do to you." He gives me a sidelong look, and his grin is irresistible.

Peter's hot hand is wrapped around my cock as Alec slides a finger inside my foreskin, then tastes my pre-cum. I just keep getting harder and harder.

I groan as the foreskin slides back and the purplish head emerges. I lift my hips, seeking more stimulation. Alec bends toward my lap and I gasp as he takes me into his mouth. I run my fingers through his hair while his tongue slowly drives me crazy.

Peter laughs as he rubs my neck with one hand while stroking himself with the other. He leans toward me and gives me a deep kiss that makes me realize how much I've missed him and how grateful I am to be included in this scene, however briefly. I reach out with my other hand and wrap it around his.

"Mmm, that feels so good," he says, then lifts his hand away from his cock and leaves me in full contact with his hot, smooth skin, which I stroke in time with Alex's movements. It doesn't take long before I'm moaning with pleasure.

Peter has a huge grin on his face as he watches Alec. "Oh yeah," he says in a low, sexy voice. "I know how good that feels. Come for us, Jasper." He sounds so cheesy that we all start laughing, and the vibrations of Alec's laughter around my cock puts me over the edge.

Afterward, as I begin to catch my breath, Peter pulls Alec toward him and kisses him hard. I think there's probably a little snowballing going on too. I stay where I am, just watching as the two men get lost in each other. My face must show something of the longing I'm feeling, because soon Peter's right hand extends toward me and he squeezes my shoulder, pulling me into their embrace. After a few more moments, he stands up and puts on his shorts.

"But... but...," I splutter. "What about you guys? I got off, but you didn't."

"'Butt' is a very good word," Peter says with a laugh.

"The night is young, sweetheart, and that was just the appetizer," Alec adds. "I hope you'll stick around for dessert later." He waggles his eyebrows comically as his tongue wets his lips, and I lean in to give him a kiss.

"Sounds good to me," I respond, getting to my feet. "I'd like to clean up a little first."

"What?" Alex exclaims, his face a pretty pout. "I didn't do a good enough job on you?" Then he grins and points toward the hallway. "You remember where the bathroom is, don't you? Peter and I will have everything ready by the time you're finished in there.

I borrow Peter's favorite soap-on-a-rope from the shower, noticing that it's right next to some girly brand of shampoo that must be Charlotte's. A small basket on the counter by the sink is filled with scrunchies and cufflinks. A magazine rack on the floor near the toilet contains back issues of _Vanity Fair _and _Elle_, as well as_ Men's Health_ and _GQ_. I've never wanted to live with anyone before, so my wistful reaction to all this cozy domesticity takes me by surprise.

I pull on my boxers and rejoin Peter and Alec, who is now wearing his shorts again too. In the dining room Peter refills our glasses before going outside to get the steaks from the grill on the apartment's balcony.

Alec is busy in the kitchen, making a garlicky aioli sauce while nuking several potatoes. Peter gives him a gentle hip bump as he puts a steak on each plate, then adds a kiss to his shoulder when he turns to pull a salad out of the fridge.

He pours a freshly made salad dressing into the bowl and hands it to me. "Toss it, will you? The salad tongs are in there." He points to a drawer next to the fridge as Alec starts slicing up a baguette.

A few minutes later, silence descends as we begin devouring the food. The steaks are cooked to perfection and everything else is delicious. It's the first home-cooked meal I've had in weeks.

After we finish eating, Peter gets up and starts clearing the table. Alec turns on some music, then pulls me up out of my seat to dance with him until Peter comes into the living room, puts his hands on his hips and starts tapping his right foot. He has a mock-serious expression on his face as he says, "If you don't help clean up, there won't be any dessert for either one of you."

After that it's only a matter of minutes before the leftovers are put away and the dishes are done. We continue dancing around the kitchen as we work, bumping hips and stealing kisses. Looking around to see what else needs to be done, I open the door leading out to the balcony, intending to grab the grill so that I can wash it, when Alec grabs me instead.

"That can wait," he says, then he pushes me up against the refrigerator and starts grinding against me as he kisses me.

Peter joins us in a moment, standing behind Alec and kissing his bare shoulders. "C'mon, you two," he says, then leads the way into their bedroom.

"What about Pride Fest?" I feel obliged to ask, although the last thing I want to do right now is leave Chateau Three-Way.

"I'm out," Alec proclaims with a laugh. "I'm out and I'm proud. What about you, Peter?"

"Yeah. I think we're doing just fine with our own little Pride Fest right here. Wouldn't you agree, Jasper?"

"Hell, yes. I just didn't want anyone to think I'd forgotten about it."

Their king-size bed has plenty of room for all of us. Alec and Peter drop their shorts on the floor, and Alec gestures to me to lose the boxers. They pull me onto the bed and I fall into the tangle of pillows and covers, sandwiched between them.

They proceed to kiss and rub and stroke my body, grinding against me as I bask in their attention. Soon Peter turns me on my side, facing Alec, and prepares to enter me as Alec and I continue kissing and giving each other handjobs.

"Oh my god, Peter," I groan as his cock slides inside me.

Alec watches us for a moment, his eyes hazy with lust, until he can't stand it any longer. "Me too," he insists in an odd voice that makes all three of us laugh. He reaches for a condom and rapidly rolls it down my cock, then lubes it with an impatient click of his tongue, as if he can't get it ready fast enough.

He slows down momentarily when he rolls on his side, his back to me, and starts applying lube to himself. Now I'm the one who's impatient, and soon I'm pushing aside his fingers as I guide my cock toward his ass. He backs up against me, both of us groaning as I push past the ring of muscle and start hitting his prostate. When I pull back, Peter pushes deeper inside me. The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin as we coordinate our movements, starting slowly at first and then picking up speed, our grunts and moans signaling when it's too much – or not enough.

I love the feel of Peter's sweaty chest behind me, and Alec's glistening back in front of me. I reach around Alec to stroke his cock until he comes, and then I'm overwhelmed by all the sensations as Peter throbs deep inside me, triggering my own powerful orgasm.

I close my eyes and wonder what this – this sea of bliss – could possibly be called. Fucking? Making love? It's not quite either one. There's no word to describe it, and that's okay. Whatever it is, it's exactly what I need.

We hold on tight to each other afterward, continuing to thrust slowly for several minutes, reluctant to pull out and end this incredible connection. Finally, though, we have to.

I suspect that I could have stayed all night with Peter and Alec, but by the time we finish cleaning up, I am drained, and my stomach hurts. Is it from too much food and sangria? Or is it just that the unexpected – but not unwelcome – sex is also a painful reminder of everything in my life that remains so elusive, so out of reach? I just want to go home and go back to sleep, to escape for a while from this weird existence on the edges of other people's lives.

I take a quick shower and come back into the bedroom to get dressed. Peter and Alec are still on the bed, wrapped up in each other's arms and kissing passionately as they begin grinding against each other again.

"I'm gonna head out," I say with a sigh.

They break apart and look at me questioningly as Peter starts to untangle himself from Alec's embrace.

"No, don't get up, Pete. I like this image of the two of you. I'm gonna be thinking about how it's your turn to be fucked now, and probably wishing I was still here to do it, but I need to go."

"Thanks for... uh... coming, Jasper," Peter says, then blows me a kiss.

"Thanks for the intervention," I reply, even though I feel like shit. "I hope we can get together again sometime."

"Mmm, that sounds delicious," Alec murmurs, and I head out into the steamy night.

~ICL~

I wander through Pride Fest for a while before catching a bus back to my neighborhood, thinking of Peter and Alec in their big, comfy bed, and wishing I was still there, or they were with me. I thought I wanted to be alone, but now I can't stand the idea of going back to my empty apartment.

A couple of cute twinks try to hit on me, but I hardly notice them. It's just me, with my head up my ass, as Peter would say, wondering if this is as good as it gets, with a boys' night out – or in – every once in a while. Oh, and Edward comes to Chicago once a year – don't forget about that.

Is that all there is? What the fuck do I want anyway?

I still haven't come up with a satisfactory answer to that question when I stumble into my apartment thirty minutes later, just as my phone starts ringing. It's after midnight and it's my mom.

"Jasper Lee Whitlock," she begins. Uh-oh. When I get the three-name greeting, I know I'm in trouble. Especially after midnight. She's usually asleep by ten.

"Hi, Mom. How are ya?" I'm stalling, even though I know it's futile. I'm cringing already and she hasn't even told me why she has escalated from repetitive texts about my mail to an actual phone call. "What are you doing up so late?"

"How am I? I'm up so late because I've been worried about you and I haven't been sleeping well." Her frown is clearly audible. "What on earth is going on with you?"

"What do you mean?" It's a delaying tactic, not that playing the innocent has ever worked with her before.

"You might as well still be on tour, for as much as I've seen of you in the past six weeks." Guilty as charged: I haven't been to her place since her birthday party. "And you haven't even had the courtesy to answer my texts..."

"Sorry, Mom. I – "

"'Sorry' doesn't cut it with me," she snaps, interrupting me before I can even come up with a decent excuse. "You know that, Jasper. For me, actions always speak louder than words, and your lack of action tells me that something isn't right. The last time you went this quiet on me was right before you told me you were gay. So what aren't you telling me this time?"

"Listen, Mom, it's late. I've been drinking and my head is a mess. Couldn't I just come by tomorrow afternoon so you can finish yelling at me then?"

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"You're not going to pass out and then forget all about me while you deal with your hangover all day, are you?"

"Probably not."

"Jasper?"

"Okay! I'll be there." It's a good idea, actually. She's always been a good listener, even if it takes me a while to figure out what to say.

"Your mail is piling up here too, you know." Now there's a surprising note of excitement in her voice. "There's one envelope that came a couple weeks ago. It looks really important. I sent you a text when it got here."

"Oh yeah, I remember that one. It was something along the lines of 'you've got mail,' right?"

"Well, yes." She sounds exasperated now, and I can't help laughing a little because all her texts are pretty much the same.

"So what's in the envelope?"

"How would I know? I don't open your mail."

I sigh. "Who's it from?"

"It doesn't have a return address."

"Mom, it has to be advertising or something. Why do you think it's so important?"

"Because, Jasper" she begins patiently, "your name is hand-written in the most beautiful calligraphy I've ever seen, and the postmark is from London..."

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks also are due to Bless the Rains for including ICL in her story recs at the end of Chapter 41 of It's Waiting There for You. Hello, and thank you to everyone who took a chance on ICL as a result of that recommendation.

Finally, Jasper's thoughts about snorting instant coffee granules are an homage to a scene in one of my favorite indie films. Can you name it?


End file.
